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MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS. 
THE  JONATHAN   PAPERS. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


The  Jonathan  Papers 


The  Jonathan  Papers 

By 

Elisabeth  Woodbridge 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOTJGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Cambrib0e 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,   BY  ELISABETH  WOODBRIDGE    MORRIS 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  Apri 


TO  JONATHAN 

AND  TO  ALL  PERFECT  COMRADESHIP 

WHEREVER  ITS  JOYOUS  SPIRIT  IS  FOUND 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


O   *  /C*   < 
« J  .!.  U  X 


Contents 

FOREWORD  —  ON  TAKING  ONE'S  DESSERT 

FIRST ix 

I.  A  PLACID  RUNAWAY 3 

II.  AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  ....  14 

III.  A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE     ...  25 

IV.  THE  YELLOW  VALLEY 38 

V.  LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS     .    .  49 

VI.  THE  FARM  SUNDAY 68 

VII.  THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM    .    .    87 
VIII.  "ESCAPED  FROM  OLD  GARDENS"    .  107 

IX.  THE  COUNTRY  ROAD 114 

X.  THE  LURE  OF  THE  BERRY      .    .    .131 

XL  IN  THE  RAIN 139 

XII.  As  THE  BEE  FLIES 155 

XIII.  A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT       ....  171 

XIV.  IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE  .  183 
XV.  BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER.  199 

XVI.  COMFORTABLE  BOOKS 214 

XVII.  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 222 

The  papers  in  this  volume  first  appeared  in  the  Outlook,  the  At 
lantic,  and  Scribner's.  The  author  wishes  to  express  to  the  editors 
of  these  magazines  her  appreciation  of  their  courtesy  in  permitting 
the  republication  of  the  papers. 


Foreword 

On  Taking  One's  Dessert  First 

WHEN  we  were  children  we  used  to  "happen 
in"  to  the  kitchen  just  before  luncheon  to  see 
what  the  dessert  was  to  be.  This  was  because 
at  the  luncheon  table  we  were  not  allowed  to 
ask,  yet  it  was  advantageous  to  know,  for 
since  even  our  youthful  capacity  had  its  lim 
its,  we  found  it  necessary  to  "save  room," 
and  the  question,  of  course,  was,  how  much 
room? 

Discovering  some  favorite  dish  being  pre 
pared,  we  used  to  gaze  with  watering  mouth, 
and,  though  knowing  its  futility,  could  seldom 
repress  the  plea,  "May  n't  we  have  our  des 
sert  now?"  Of  course  we  never  did,  of  course 
we  waited,  and  of  course,  when  that  same 
dessert  came  to  us,  properly  served,  at  the 
proper  time,  after  a  properly  wholesome 
luncheon  preceding,  it  found  us  expectant, 
perhaps,  but  not  eager;  appreciative,  but  not 


x  FOREWORD 

enthusiastic.  It  was  not  to  us  what  it  would 
have  been  at  the  golden  moment  when  we 
begged  for  it. 

In  hours  of  unbridled  hostility  to  domestic 
conditions  we  used  sometimes  to  plan  for  a 
future  when  we  should  be  grown  up,  and  then 
would  we  not  change  this  sorry  scheme  of 
things  entire!  Would  we  not  have  a  larder, 
with  desserts  in  it,  our  favorite  desserts  — 
and  would  we  not  devour  these  same,  boldly, 
recklessly,  immediately  before  the  meal  for 
which  they  were  intended!  Just  wouldn't 
we! 

,  And  afterward  —  just  didn't  we!  Most 
youthful  fancies  are  doomed  to  fade  unreal 
ized,  but  this  one  was  too  fundamentally 
practical  and  sane.  We  are  grown  up,  we 
have  a  larder,  with  now  and  then  toothsome 
desserts  in  it,  and  now  and  then  we  grip  our 
conscience  till  it  cowers  and  is  still,  we  wait 
till  the  servants  are  out,  we  walk  into  our 
pantry  —  and  then  — 

Yes,  triumphant  we  still  believe  what  once 
militant  we  maintained  —  that  the  only  way 
to  eat  cake  is  when  it  is  just  out  of  the  oven, 
that  the  only  way  to  eat  ice  cream  is  to  dip 


FOREWORD  xi 

it  out  of  the  freezer,  down  under  the  apple 
tree,  in  the  mid-morning  or  mid-afternoon. 
Afterward,  when  it  appears  in  sober  decorum, 
surrounded  by  all  the  appurtenances  of  civ 
ilization,  it  is  a  very  commonplace  affair;  out 
under  the  apple  tree  it  is  ambrosia. 

Why  not  go  further?  Why  not  take  all  our 
desserts  in  life  when  they  taste  best,  instead 
of  at  the  proper  time,  when  we  don't  care  for 
them?  Desserts  are,  I  suppose,  meant  to  be 
enjoyed.  Why  not  have  them  when  most 
enjoyable?  I  wonder  if  there  is  not  a  certain 
perverted  conscientiousness  that  leads  us  to 
this  enforcement  of  our  pleasures.  I  am  my 
self  conscious  that  I  can  scarcely  ever  ap 
proach  a  pleasure  with  a  mind  singly  bent  on 
enjoyment.  I  regard  it  with  something  like 
suspicion,  I  hedge,  I  hesitate,  I  defer.  What 
is  the  motive  force  here?  Is  it  an  inherited 
asceticism,  bidding  us  beware  of  pleasure  as 
such?  Is  it  pride,  which  will  not  permit  us  to 
make  unseemly  haste  toward  our  desires?  Is 
it  a  subtle  self-gratification,  which  seeks  to 
add  zest,  tone,  to  our  delights  by  postponing 
them?  Is  it  fear  of  anticlimax,  which  makes 
us  save  our  pleasure  for  the  last  thing,  that 


xii  FOREWORD 

there  may  be  no  descent  afterward?  Cer 
tainly  the  last  was  the  motive  in  the  case  of 
the  little  boy  who,  dining  out,  was  given  a 
piece  of  mince  and  one  of  custard  pie.  He 
liked  the  mince  best,  therefore  he  saved  it 
until  the  last,  and  had  just  conscientiously 
finished  the  custard  when  his  beaming  hostess 
said:  "Oh,  you  like  the  custard  best!  Well, 
dear,  you  need  n't  eat  the  other.  Delia,  bring 
another  plate  for  Henry  and  I'll  give  him 
another  piece  of  the  custard  pie."  Pathetic! 
Yet  I  confess  my  sympathy  with  Henry  has 
always  been  qualified  by  disapproval  of  his 
methods,  which,  it  seems  to  me,  brought 
down  upon  him  an  awful  but  not  wholly 
undeserved  penalty. 

The  incident  is  worth  careful  attention. 
For  life,  I  believe,  is  continually  treating  us 
as  that  benevolent  but  misguided  hostess 
treated  the  incomprehensible  Henry.  If  we 
postpone  our  mince  pie,  it  is  often  snatched 
from  us  and  we  never  get  it  at  all.  I  knew  a 
youth  once  who  habitually  rode  a  bicycle  that 
was  too  small  for  him.  He  explained  that  he 
continued  to  do  this  because  then,  when  at 
same  future  time  he  did  have  one  that  fitted 


FOREWORD  xiii 

him,  he  would  be  so  surpassingly  comfortable! 
Soon  after,  bicycles  went  out  of  fashion,  and 
I  fear  the  moment  of  supreme  luxury  never 
came.  His  mince  pie  had,  as  it  were,  been 
snatched  from  him.  One  of  my  friends  wrote 
me  once:  "It  seems  to  me  I  am  always  dis- 
tractingly  busy  just  getting  ready  to  live,  but 
I  never  really  begin."  Most  of  us  are  in  the 
same  plight.  We  are  like  the  thrifty  house 
wife  who  kept  pushing  the  week's  work  earlier 
and  earlier,  until  it  backed  up  into  the  week 
before;  yet  with  all  her  planning  she  never 
succeeded  in  clearing  one  little  spot  of  leisure 
for  herself.  She  never  got  her  dessert  at  all. 
Probably  she  would  not  have  enjoyed  it  if  she 
had  had  it.  For  the  capacity  to  enjoy  desserts 
in  life  is  something  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Children  have  it,  and  grown  people  can  keep 
it  if  they  try,  but  they  don't  always  try.  I 
knew  of  a  man  who  worked  every  minute  un 
til  he  was  sixty,  getting  rich.  He  did  get  rich. 
Then  he  retired;  he  built  him  a  "stately 
pleasure  palace,"  and  set  about  taking  his 
pleasure.  And  lo!  he  found  that  he  had  for 
gotten  how!  He  tried  this  and  that,  indoor 
and  outdoor  pleasures,  the  social  and  the  sol- 


xiv  FOREWORD 

itary,  the  artistic  and  the  semi-scientific  —  all 
to  no  purpose.  Here  were  all  the  desserts  that 
throughout  his  life  he  had  been  steadfastly 
pushing  aside;  they  were  ranged  before  him 
to  partake  of,  and  when  he  would  partake  he 
could  not.  And  so  he  left  his  pleasure  palace 
and  went  back  to  "business." 

We  are  not  all  so  far  gone  as  this,  but  few 
of  us  have  the  courage  to  take  our  desserts 
when  they  are  offered,  or  the  free  spirit  to 
enjoy  them  to  the  uttermost.  I  get  up  on  a 
glorious  summer  morning  and  gaze  out  at  the 
new  day.  With  all  the  strongest  and  deepest 
instincts  of  my  nature  I  long  to  go  out  into 
the  green  beauty  of  the  world,  to  fling  myself 
down  in  some  sloping  meadow  and  feel  the 
sunshine  envelop  me  and  the  warm  winds  pass 
over  me,  to  see  them  tossing  the  grasses  and 
tugging  at  the  trees  and  driving  the  white 
clouds  across  the  blue,  and  to  feel  the  great 
earth  revolving  under  me  —  for  if  you  lie  long 
enough  you  can  really  get  the  sense  of  sailing 
through  space.  All  this  I  long  for  —  from  my 
window.  Then  I  turn  back  to  my  unglorified 
little  house  —  little,  however  big,  compared 
with  the  limitless  world  of  beauty  outside  — 


FOREWORD  xv 

and  betake  myself  to  my  day's  routine  occu 
pations.  I  read  my  mail,  I  answer  letters,  I 
go  over  accounts,  I  fly  to  the  telephone  and 
give  orders  and  make  engagements.  And 
at  length,  after  hours  of  such  stultifying  em 
ployment,  I  elect  to  call  myself  "free,"  and 
go  forth  to  enjoy  my  "well-earned"  leisure. 
Fool  that  I  am!  As  if  enjoyment  were  a  thing 
to  be  taken  up  and  laid  down  at  will,  like  a 
walking-stick.  As  if  one  could  let  the  golden 
moment  pass  and  hope  to  find  it  again  await 
ing  our  convenience.  Why  can  we  not  be  like 
Pippa  with  her  one  precious  day?  But  if  she 
had  been  born  in  New  England  do  you  sup 
pose  her  day  would  have  been  what  it  was? 
Would  she  have  sprung  up  at  daybreak  with 
heart  and  mind  all  alight  for  pleasure?  Cer 
tainly  not.  She  would  have  spent  the  golden 
morning  in  cleaning  the  kitchen,  and  the 
golden  afternoon  in  clearing  up  the  attic,  and 
would  have  gone  out  for  a  little  walk  after  the 
supper  dishes  were  washed,  only  because  she 
thought  she  "ought"  to  take  a  little  exercise 
in  the  open  air. 

Duty  and  work  are  all  very  well,  but  we 
have  bound  ourselves  up  in  them  so  com- 


xvi  FOREWORD 

pletely  that  we  have  almost  lost  the  art  of 
spontaneous  enjoyment.  We  can  feel  com 
fortable  or  uncomfortable,  annoyed  or  grati 
fied,  but  we  cannot  feel  simple,  buoyant,  in 
stinctive  enjoyment  in  anything.  We  take 
our  very  pleasures  under  the  name  of  duties — 
"We  ought  to  take  a  walk,"  "We  ought  not 
to  miss  that  concert,"  "We  ought  to  read" 
a  certain  book,  "We  ought"  to  go  and  see  this 
friend,  or  invite  that  one  to  see  us.  Those 
things  that  should  be  our  spontaneous  pleas 
ures  we  have  clothed  and  masked  until  they 
no  longer  know  themselves.  A  pleasure  must 
present  itself  under  the  guise  of  a  duty  before 
we  feel  that  we  can  wholly  give  ourselves  over 
to  it. 

Ah,  let  us  stop  all  that!  Let  us  take  our 
pleasures  without  apology.  Let  us  give  up 
this  fashion  of  shoving  them  away  into  the 
left-over  corners  of  our  lives,  covering  their 
gleaming  raiment  with  sad-colored  robes,  and 
visiting  them  with  half-averted  faces.  Let 
us  consort  with  them  openly,  gayly ! 


The  Jonathan  Papers 


The  Jonathan  Papers 


A  Placid  Runaway 

JONATHAN  and  I  differ  about  a  great  many 
things;  how  otherwise  are  we  to  avoid  the 
sloughs  of  bigoted  self-satisfaction?  But  upon 
one  point  we  agree:  we  are  both  convinced 
that  on  a  beautiful  morning  in  April  or  May 
or  June  there  is  just  one  thing  that  any  right- 
minded  person  really  wants  to  do.  That  is  to 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  duty  and  a  blind  eye  to  all 
other  pleasures,  and  —  find  a  trout  brook. 
We  are,  indeed,  able  to  understand  that  duty 
may  be  too  much  for  him  —  may  be  quite 
indifferent  to  his  deaf  ear  and  shout  in  the 
other,  or  may  even  seize  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  hold  him  firmly  in  his  place.  He  may  not 
be  able  so  much  as  to  drop  a  line  in  the  brown 
water  all  through  the  maddening  spring  days. 
But  that  he  should  not  want  to  —  ache  to  — 
this  we  cannot  understand.  We  do  know  that 


4  THE  JOXATHAX  PAPERS 

it  is  not  a  thing  to  be  argued  about.  It  is 
temperamental,  it  is  in  the  blood,  or  it  is  not. 
Jonathan  and  I  always  want  to. 

Once  it  was  almost  the  end  of  April,  and 
we  had  been  wanting  to  ever  since  March 
had  gone  out  like  a  lion  —  for  in  some  parts 
of  New  England  a  jocose  legislature  has 
arranged  that  the  trout  season  shall  begin 
on  April  Fool's  Day.  Those  who  try  to 
catch  trout  on  April  first  understand  the 
joke. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said  over  our  coffee,  "have 
you  noticed  the  weather  to-day?'' 

"  Um-m-pleasant  day,"  he  murmured  ab 
stractedly  from  behind  his  newspaper. 

"Pleasant!  Have  you  felt  the  sunshine? 
Have  you  smelt  the  spring  mud?  I  want  to 
roll  in  it!" 

Jonathan  really  looked  up  over  his  paper. 
"Do!"  he  said,  benevolently. 

"Jonathan,  let's  run  away!" 

"Can't.   There's  a  man  coming  at  — " 

"I  know.  There's  always  a  man  coming. 
Tell  him  to  come  to-morrow.  Tell  him  you 
are  called  out  of  town." 

"But  you  have  a  lot  of  things  to-day  too 


A  PLACID  RUNAWAY  5 

—  book  clubs  and  Japanese  clubs  and  such 
things.  You  said  last  night — " 

"I'll  tell  them  I'm  called  out  of  town  too. 
I  am  called  —  we're  both  called,  you  know 
we  are.  And  we've  got  to  go." 

"Really,  my  dear,  you  know  I  want  to, 
but—'5  ' 

"No  use!  It's  a  runaway.  Get  the  time 
table  and  see  which  is  the  first  train  to  any 
where  —  to  nowhere  —  who  cares  where!" 

Jonathan  went,  protesting.  I  let  him  pro 
test.  A  man  should  have  some  privileges, 

We  took  the  first  train.  It  was  a  local,  of 
course,  and  it  trundled  jerkily  along  one  of 
the  little  rivers  we  knew.  When  the  conduc 
tor  came  to  us,  Jonathan  showed  him  our 
mileage  book.  "Where  to?"  he  asked  me 
chanically,  but  stiffened  to  attention  when 
Jonathan  said  placidly,  "I  don't  know  yet. 
Where  are  we  going,  my  dear?" 

"  I  had  n't  thought,"  I  said;  "let's  see  the 
places  on  the  map." 

"Well,  conductor,"  said  Jonathan,  "take 
off  for  three  stations,  and  if  we  don't  get  off 
then,  you'll  find  us  here  when  you  come 
around, and  then  you  can  take  off  some  more." 


6  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

The  conductor  looked  us  both  over.  We 
were  evidently  not  a  bridal  couple,  and  we 
did  n't  look  quite  like  criminals  —  he  gave  us 
up. 

When  we  saw  a  bit  of  country  that  looked 
attractive,  we  got  off.  That  was  something  I 
had  always  wanted  to  do.  All  my  life  I  have 
had  to  go  to  definite  places,  and  my  memory 
is  full  of  tantalizing  glimpses  of  the  charming 
spots  I  have  passed  on  the  road  and  could 
never  stop  to  explore.  This  time  we  really  did 
it.  We  left  the  little  railway  station,  sitting 
plain  and  useful  beside  the  track,  went  up  the 
road  past  a  few  farmhouses,  over  a  fence  and 
across  a  soft  ploughed  field,  and  down  to  the 
little  river,  willow-bordered,  shallow,  golden- 
brown,  with  here  and  there  a  deep  pool  under 
an  overhanging  hemlock  or  a  shelving,  fretted, 
bush-tangled  bank. 

We  sat  down  in  the  sun  on  a  willow  log 
and  put  our  rods  together.  Does  anything 
sound  prettier  than  the  whir  and  click  of  the 
reel  as  one  pulls  out  the  line  for  the  first  time 
on  an  April  day?  We  sat  and  looked  at  the 
world  for  a  little,  and  let  the  wind,  with  just 
the  faint  chill  of  the  vanishing  snows  still  in 


A  PLACID  RUNAWAY  7 

it,  blow  over  us,  and  the  sun,  that  was  making 
anemones  and  arbutus  every  minute,  warm 
us  through.  It  was  almost  too  good  to  begin, 
this  day  that  we  had  stolen.  I  felt  like  a 
child  with  a  toothsome  cake  —  "I'll  put  it 
away  for  a  while  and  have  it  later." 

But,  after  all,  it  was  already  begun.  We 
had  not  stolen  it,  it  had  stolen  us,  and  it  held 
us  in  its  power.  Soon  we  wandered  on,  at 
first  hastening  for  the  mere  joy  of  motion  and 
the  freshness  of  things;  then,  as  the  wind 
lessened  and  the  sun  shone  hot  in  the  hollows, 
loitering  more  and  more,  dropping  a  line  here 
and  there  where  a  deep  pool  looked  suggest 
ive.  Trout?  Yes,  we  caught  some.  Jonathan 
pulled  in  a  good  many;  I  got  enough  to  seem 
industrious.  I  seldom  catch  as  many  as  Jona 
than,  though  he  tries  to  give  me  all  the  best 
holes ;  because  really  there  are  so  many  other 
things  to  attend  to.  Men  seem  to  go  fishing 
chiefly  to  catch  fish.  Jonathan  spends  half 
an  hour  working  his  rod  and  line  through  a 
network  of  bushes,  briers,  and  vines,  to  drop 
it  in  a  chosen  spot  in  a  pool.  He  swears  gently 
as  he  works,  but  he  works  on,  and  usually 
gets  his  fish.  I  don't  swear,  so  I  know  I  could 


8  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

never  carry  through  such  an  undertaking, 
and  I  don't  try. 

I  did  try  once,  when  I  was  young  and  reck 
less.  I  headed  the  tip  of  my  rod,  like  a  lance 
in  rest,  for  the  most  open  spot  I  could  see. 
For  the  fisherman's  rule  in  the  woods  is  not 
"Follow  the  flag,"  but  "Follow  your  tip," 
and  I  tried  to  follow  mine.  This  necessitated 
reducing  myself  occasionally  to  the  dimen 
sions  of  a  filament,  but  I  was  elastic,  and  I 
persisted.  The  brambles  neatly  extracted 
my  hat-pins  and  dropped  them  in  the  tangle 
about  my  feet;  they  pulled  off  my  hat,  but  I 
pushed  painfully  forward.  They  tore  at  my 
hair;  they  caught  an  end  of  my  tie  and  drew 
out  the  bow.  Finally  they  made  a  simul 
taneous  and  well-planned  assault  upon  my 
hair,  my  neck,  my  left  arm,  raised  to  push 
them  back,  and  my  right,  extended  to  hold 
and  guide  that  quivering,  undulating  rod. 
I  was  helpless,  unless  I  wished  to  be  torn  in 
shreds.  At  that  moment,  as  I  stood  poised, 
hot,  bafHed,  smarting  and  stinging  with 
bramble  scratches,  wishing  I  could  swear 
like  a  man  and  have  it  out,  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  liquid  notes  of  a  wood  thrush.  I 


A   PLACID  RUNAWAY  9 

love  the  wood  thrush  best  of  all;  but  that  he 
should  choose  this  moment!  It  was  the  final 
touch. 

I  whistled  the  blue-jay  note,  which  means 
"Come,"  and  Jonathan  came  threshing 
through  the  brush,  having  left  his  rod. 

"Where  are  you?"  he  called;  "  I  can't  see 
you." 

"No,  you  can't,"  I  responded  unami- 
ably.  "You  probably  never  will  see  me 
again,  at  least  not  in  any  recognizable  form. 
Help  me  out!"  The  thrush  sang  again,  one 
tree  farther  away.  "No!  First  kill  that 
thrush!"  I  added  between  set  teeth,  as  a 
slight  motion  of  mine  set  the  brambles  raking 
again. 

"  Why,  why,  my  dear,  what 's  this?  "  Then, 
as  he  caught  sight  of  me,  "  Well !  You  are  tied 
up!  Wait;  I  '11  get  out  my  knife." 

He  cut  here  and  there,  and  one  after  an 
other,  with  a  farewell  stab  or  scratch,  the 
maddening  things  reluctantly  let  go  their 
hold.  Meanwhile  Jonathan  made  placid 
remarks  about  the  proper  way  to  go  through 
brush.  "You  go  too  fast,  you  know.  You 
can't  hurry  these  things,  and  you  can't  bully 


10  THE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

them.  I  don't  see  how  you  manage  to  get 
scratched  up  so.  I  never  do." 

"Jonathan,  you  are  as  tactless  as  the 
thrush." 

"Don't  kill  me  yet,  though.  Wait  till  I 
cut  this  last  fellow.  There!  Now  you're 
free.  By  George!  But  you're  a  wreck!" 

That  was  the  last  time  I  ever  tried  to 
"work  through  brush,"  as  Jonathan  calls  it. 
If  I  can  catch  trout  by  any  method  compati 
ble  with  sanity,  I  am  ready  to  do  it,  but  as 
for  allowing  myself  to  be  drawn  into  a  situa 
tion  wherein  the  note  of  the  wood  thrush  stirs 
thoughts  of  murder  in  my  breast  —  at  that 
point,  I  opine,  sport  ceases. 

So  on  that  day  of  our  runaway  I  kept  to 
open  waters  and  preserved  a  placid  mind. 
The  air  was  full  of  bird  notes  —  in  the  big 
open  woods  the  clear  "whick-ya,  whick-ya, 
whick-ya"  of  the  courting  yellowhammers, 
in  the  meadows  bluebirds  with  their  shy, 
vanishing  call  that  is  over  almost  before  you 
can  begin  to  listen,  meadowlarks  poignantly 
sweet,  song  sparrows  with  a  lift  and  a  lilt  and 
a  carol,  and  in  the  swamps  the  red-wings 
trilling  jubilant. 


A  PLACID  RUNAWAY  11 

Noon  came,  and  we  camped  under  the 
sunny  lee  of  a  ridge  that  was  all  abloom  with 
hepaticas  —  clumps  of  lavender  and  white 
and  rosy -lilac.  We  found  a  good  spring,  and 
a  fallen  log,  and  some  dead  hemlock  tips  to 
start  a  fire,  and  soon  we  had  a  merry  blaze. 
Then  Jonathan  dressed  some  of  the  trout, 
while  I  found  a  black  birch  tree  and  cut 
forked  sticks  for  broilers.  Any  one  who  has 
not  broiled  fresh-caught  trout  outdoors  on 
birch  forks  —  or  spice  bush  will  do  almost  as 
well  —  has  yet  to  learn  what  life  holds  for 
him.  Chops  are  good,  too,  done  in  that  way. 
We  usually  carry  them  along  when  there  is 
no  prospect  of  fish,  or,  when  we  are  sure  of 
our  country,  we  take  a  tin  cup  and  buy  eggs 
at  a  farmhouse  to  boil.  But  the  balancing  of 
the  can  requires  a  happy  combination  of 
stones  about  the  fire  that  the  brief  nooning 
of  a  day's  tramp  seldom  affords,  and  baking 
is  still  more  uncertain.  Bacon  is  good,  but 
broiling  the  little  slices  —  and  how  they  do 
shrink!  —  takes  too  long,  while  frying  entails 
a  pan.  Curiously  enough,  a  pan,  in  addition 
to  two  fish  baskets  and  a  landing-net,  does 
not  find  favor  in  Jonathan's  eyes. 


12  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

After  luncheon  and  a  long,  lazy  rest  on  our 
log  we  went  back  to  the  stream  and  loitered 
down  its  bank.  Pussy-willows,  their  sleek  sil 
ver  paws  bursting  into  fat,  caterpillary  things, 
covered  us  with  yellow  pollen  powder  as  we 
brushed  past  them.  Now  and  then  we  were 
arrested  by  the  sharp  fragrance  of  the  spice 
bush,  whose  little  yellow  blossoms  had  es 
caped  our  notice.  In  the  damp  hollows  the 
ground  was  carpeted  with  the  rich,  mottled 
green  leaves  and  tawny  yellow  bells  of  the 
adder's-tongue,  and  the  wet  mud  was  sweet 
with  the  dainty,  short-stemmed  white  violets. 
On  the  dry,  barren  places  were  masses  of  saxi 
frage,  bravely  cheerful;  on  the  rocky  slopes 
fragile  anemones  blew  in  the  wind,  and  fluffy 
green  clumps  of  columbine  lured  us  on  to  a 
vain  search  for  an  early  blossom. 

As  the  afternoon  waned,  and  the  wind 
freshened  crisply,  we  guessed  that  it  was 
milking-time,  and  wandered  up  to  a  farm 
house  where  we  persuaded  the  farmer's  wife 
to  give  us  bread  and  cheese  and  warm  new 
milk.  We  were  urged  to  "set  inside,"  but 
preferred  to  take  the  great  white  pitcher  of 
milk  out  to  the  steps  of  the  little  back  porch 


A   PLACID  RUNAWAY  13 

where  we  could  hear  the  insistent  note  of  the 
little  phcebe  that  was  building  under  the 
eaves  of  the  woodshed.  Our  hostess  stood  in 
the  doorway,  watching  in  amused  tolerance 
as  we  filled  and  refilled  our  goblets.  They 
were  wonderful  goblets,  be  it  said  —  the  best 
the  house  afforded.  Jonathan's  was  of  fancy 
green  glass,  all  covered  with  little  knobs;  mine 
was  yellow,  with  a  head  of  Washington 
stamped  on  one  side,  and  "God  Bless  our 
Country"  on  the  other.  Finally  the  good 
woman  broke  the  silence  —  "Guess  your 
mothers  ain't  never  weaned  ye."  Which  we 
were  not  in  a  position  to  refute. 

On  our  return  train  we  found  the  same 
conductor  who  had  taken  us  out  in  the  morn 
ing.  As  he  folded  back  the  green  cover  of 
our  mileage  book  he  could  not  forbear  re 
marking,  quizzically,  "Know  how  far  you're 
goin' to-night?" 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  as  we  settled  to  toast 
and  tea  before  our  home  fireplace  that  even 
ing,  "I  like  running  away.  I  don't  blame 
horses." 


n 

An  Unprogressive  Farm 

MOST  of  our  friends,  Jonathan's  and  mine, 
are  occupying  their  summers  in  "reclaiming" 
old  farms.  We  have  an  old  farm,  too,  but  we, 
I  fear,  are  not  reclaiming  it,  at  least  not  very 
fast.  We  have  made  neither  formal  gardens 
nor  water  gardens  nor  rose  arches;  we  have 
not  built  marble  swimming-tanks,  nor  even 
cement  ones ;  we  have  not  naturalized  forget- 
me-nots  in  the  brook  or  narcissus  in  the  mead 
ows;  we  have  not  erected  tea-houses  on  choice 
knolls,  and  after  six  years  of  occupancy  there 
is  still  not  a  pergola  or  a  sundial  on  the  place ! 
And  yet  wre  are  happy. 

To  be  happy  on  a  farm  like  ours  one  must, 
I  fancy,  be  either  very  old  or  very  unpro- 
gressive.  While  we  are  waiting  to  grow  com 
fortably  old,  we  are  willing  to  be  considered 
unprogressive. 

Very  old  and  very,  very  unprogressive  is 
the  farm  itself.  There  is  nothing  on  it  but 


AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  15 

old  apple  trees,  old  lilac  bushes,  old  rocks, 
and  old  associations  — and,  to  be  sure,  the 
old  red  house.  But  the  old  rocks,  piled  on  the 
hillsides,  are  unfailingly  picturesque,  whether 
dark  and  dripping  in  the  summer  rains  or 
silver  gray  in  the  summer  suns.  The  lilacs 
are  delightful,  too.  In  June  they  send  wave 
upon  wave  of  fragrance  in  through  the  little 
windows,  penetrating  even  to  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  dim  old  attic,  while  all  day  long 
about  their  pale  lavender  sprays  the  great 
yellow  and  black  butterflies  hang  flutteringly. 
Best  of  all  is  the  orchard;  the  old  apple  trees 
blossom  prodigally  for  a  brief  season  in  May, 
blossom  in  rosy-white,  in  cream-white,  in 
pure  white,  in  green-white,  transforming  the 
lane  and  the  hill-slopes  into  a  bower,  smother 
ing  the  old  house  in  beauty,  brooding  over  it, 
on  still  moonlight  nights,  in  pale  clouds  of 
sweetness.  And  then  comes  a  wind,  with  a 
drenching  rain,  and  tears  away  all  the  pretty 
petals  and  buries  them  in  the  grass  below. 
But  there  are  seldom  any  apples;  all  this 
exuberance  of  beauty  is  but  a  dream  of  youth, 
not  a  promise  of  fruitage.  Jonathan,  indeed, 
tells  me  that  if  we  want  the  trees  to  bear  we 


16  THE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

must  keep  pigs  in  the  orchard  to  root  up  the 
ground  and  eat  the  wormy  fruit  as  it  falls ;  but 
under  these  conditions  I  would  rather  not 
have  the  apples.  The  orchard  is  old;  why  not 
leave  it  to  dream  and  rest  and  dream  again? 

The  old  associations  are,  I  admit,  of  a 
somewhat  mixed  character.  There  is  the 
romance  of  the  milk-room  door,  through 
which,  in  hoary  ages  past,  the  "hired  girl," 
at  the  ripe  age  of  twrelve,  eloped  with  her 
sixteen-year-old  lover;  there  is  the  story  of 
the  cellar  nail,  a  shuddery  one,  handed  down 
from  a  yet  more  remote  antiquity;  there  are 
tales  of  the  "  ballroom"  on  the  second  floor,  of 
the  old  lightning-riven  locust  stump,  of  the 
origin  of  the  "new  wing"  of  the  house  —  still 
called  "new,"  though  a  century  old.  Not  a 
spot,  indoors  or  out,  but  has  its  clustering 
memories. 

Such  an  enveloping  atmosphere  of  associa 
tions,  no  matter  what  their  quality,  in  a  place 
where  generations  have  lived  and  died,  is  of 
itself  a  quieting  thing.  Life,  incrusted  with 
tradition,  like  a  ship  weighted  with  barnacles, 
moves  more  and  more  slowly;  the  past  ap 
pears  more  real  than  the  present.  To  the  old 


AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  17 

this  seems  natural  and  right,  to  others  it  is 
often  depressing;  but  Jonathan  and  I  like  it. 
Our  barnacle-clogged  ship  pleases  us  — 
pleases  me  because  I  love  the  slow,  drifting 
motion,  pleases  Jonathan  because  —  I  regret 
to  admit  it  —  he  thinks  he  can  get  all  the 
barnacles  off  —  and  then !  — 

For,  whereas  my  unprogressiveness  is  ab 
solute  and  unqualified,  Jonathan's  is,  I  have 
discovered,  tainted  by  a  sneaking  optimism, 
an  ineradicable  desire  and  hope  of  improve 
ment,  which,  though  it  does  not  blossom 
rankly  in  pergolas  and  tea-houses,  is  none  the 
less  there,  a  lurking  menace.  It  inspired  his 
suggestion  regarding  pigs  in  the  orchard,  it 
showed  itself  even  more  clearly  in  the  matter 
of  the  hens. 

I  have  always  liked  hens.  I  doubt  if  mine 
are  very  profitable,  —  the  farm  is  not,  in 
general,  a  source  of  profit,  and  we  cherish  no 
delusions  about  it,  —  but  I  do  not  keep  them 
for  pecuniary  gain.  If  they  chance  to  lay 
eggs,  so  much  the  better;  if  they  furnish  forth 
my  table  with  succulent  broilers,  with  nutri 
tious  roasters,  with  ambrosial  chicken-pasties, 
I  am  not  unappreciative;  but  I  realize  that  all 


18  THE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

these  things  might  be  had  from  my  neighbors' 
barnyards.  What  I  primarily  value  my  own 
hens  for  is  their  companionship.  Talk  about 
the  companionship  of  dogs  and  cats!  Cats 
walk  about  my  home,  sleek  and  superior; 
they  make  me  feel  that  I  am  there  on  suffer 
ance.  One  cannot  even  laugh  at  them,  their 
manner  is  so  perfect.  Dogs,  on  the  other 
hand,  develop  an  unreasoning  and  tyrannous 
devotion  to  their  masters,  which  is  not  really 
good  for  either,  though  it  may  be  morbidly 
gratifying  to  sentimental  natures. 

But  hens !  No  decorous  superiority  here,  no 
mush  of  devotion.  No;  for  varied  folly,  for 
rich  and  highly  developed  perversities,  com 
bining  all  that  is  choicest  of  masculine  and 
feminine  foible  —  for  this  and  much  more, 
commend  me  to  the  hen.  Ever  since  we  came 
to  the  farm,  my  sister  the  hen  has  entertained 
me  with  her  vagaries.  Jaques's  delight  at  his 
encounter  with  Touchstone  is  pale  compared 
with  mine  in  their  society.  Nothing  cheers 
me  more  than  to  sit  on  a  big  rock  in  the  barn 
yard  and  watch  the  hens  walking  about. 
Their  very  gait  pleases  me --the  way  they 
bob  their  heads,  the  "genteel "  way  they  have 


AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  19 

of  picking  up  their  feet,  for  all  the  world  as 
though  they  cared  where  they  stepped;  the 
absent  and  superior  manner  in  which  they 
"scratch  for  worms,"  their  gaze  fixed  on  the 
sky,  then  cock  their  heads  downwards  with 
an  indifferent  air,  absently  pick  up  a  chip, 
drop  it,  and  walk  on !  Did  any  one  ever  see  a 
hen  really  find  a  worm?  I  never  did.  There 
are  no  worms  in  our  barnyard,  anyhow; 
Jonathan  must  have  dug  them  all  up  for  bait 
when  he  was  a  boy.  I  have  even  tried  throw 
ing  some  real  worms  to  them,  and  they  always 
respond  by  a  few  nervous  cackles,  and  walk 
past  the  brown  wrigglers  with  a  detached 
manner,  and  the  robins  get  them  later.  And 
yet  they  continue  to  go  through  all  these 
forms,  and  we  continue  to  call  it  "scratching 
for  worms." 

Jonathan  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  hens 
except  to  give  advice.  One  of  his  hobbies  is 
the  establishing  of  a  breed  of  hens  marked  by 
intelligence,  which  he  maintains  might  be 
done  by  careful  selection  of  the  mothers. 
Accordingly,  whenever  he  goes  to  the  roost 
to  pick  out  a  victim  for  the  sacrificial  hatchet, 
he  first  gently  pulls  the  tail  of  each  candidate 


20  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

in  turn,  and  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern 
carefully  observes  the  nature  of  their  reaction, 
choosing  for  destruction  the  one  whose  de 
portment  seems  to  him  most  foolish.  In  this 
way,  by  weeding  out  the  extremely  silly,  he 
hopes  in  time  to  raise  the  general  intellectual 
standard  of  the  barnyard.  But  he  urges  that 
much  more  might  be  done  if  my  heart  were  in 
it.  Very  likely,  but  my  heart  is  not.  Intelli 
gence  is  all  very  well,  but  the  barnyard,  I  am 
convinced,  is  no  place  for  it.  Give  me  my 
pretty,  silly  hens,  with  all  their  aimless,  silly 
ways.  I  will  seek  intelligence,  when  I  want  it, 
elsewhere. 

In  another  direction,  too,  Jonathan's  op 
timistic  temperament  has  found  little  encour 
agement.  This  is  in  regard  to  the  chimney 
swallows.  When  we  first  came,  these  little 
creatures  were  one  of  my  severest  trials. 
They  were  not  a  trial  to  Jonathan.  He  loved 
to  watch  them  at  dusk,  circling  and  eddying 
about  the  great  chimney.  So,  indeed,  did  I; 
and  if  they  had  but  contented  themselves 
with  circling  and  eddying  there,  I  should 
have  had  no  quarrel  with  them.  I  did  not  even 
object  to  their  evolutions  inside  the  chimney. 


AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  21 

At  first  I  took  the  muffled  shudder  of  wings 
for  distant  thunder,  and  when  great  masses 
of  soot  came  tumbling  down  into  the  fireplace, 
I  jumped;  but  I  soon  grew  accustomed  to  all 
this.  I  was  even  willing  to  clean  the  soot  out 
of  my  neat  fireplace  daily,  while  Jonathan 
comforted  me  by  suggesting  that  the  birds 
took  the  place  of  chimney-sweeps,  and  that 
soot  was  good  for  rose  bushes.  Yes,  if  the 
little  things  had  been  willing  to  stick  to  their 
chimney,  I  should  have  been  tolerant,  if  not 
cordial.  But  when  they  invaded  my  domain, 
I  felt  that  I  had  a  grievance.  And  invade  it 
they  did.  At  dawn  I  was  rudely  awakened  by 
a  rush  from  the  fireplace,  a  mad  scuttering 
about  the  dusky  room,  a  desperate  exit  by  the 
little  open  window,  where  the  raised  shade 
revealed  the  pale  light  of  morning.  At  night, 
if  I  went  with  my  candle  into  a  dark  room,  I 
was  met  by  a  whirling  thing,  dashing  itself 
against  me,  against  the  light,  against  the 
walls,  in  a  moth-like  ecstasy  of  self-destruc 
tion.  In  the  mornings,  as  I  went  about  the 
house  pulling  up  the  shades  and  drawing  back 
the  curtains,  out  from  their  white  folds  rushed 
dark,  winged  shapes,  whirring  past  my  ears, 


22  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

fluttering  blindly  about  the  room,  sinking  ex 
hausted  in  inaccessible  corners.  They  were  as 
foolish  as  June  bugs,  fifty  times  bigger,  and 
harder  to  catch.  Moreover,  when  caught, 
they  were  not  pretty;  their  eyes  were  in  the 
top  of  their  heads,  like  a  snake's,  their  expres 
sion  was  low  and  cunning.  They  were  almost 
as  bad  as  bats!  Worst  of  all,  the  young  birds 
had  an  untidy  habit  of  tumbling  out  of  the 
nests  down  into  the  fireplaces,  whether  there 
was  a  fire  or  not.  Now,  I  have  no  conscien 
tious  objection  to  roasting  birds,  but  I  prefer 
to  choose  my  birds,  and  to  kill  them  first. 

One  morning  I  had  gathered  and  carried 
out  of  doors  eight  foolish,  frightened,  hud 
dling  things,  and  one  dead  young  one  from 
the  sitting-room  embers,  and  I  returned  to 
find  Jonathan  kneeling  on  the  guest-room 
hearth,  one  arm  thrust  far  up  the  chimney. 
"'  What  are  you  doing,  Jonathan?"  The  next 
moment  there  was  the  familiar  rush  of  wings, 
which  finally  subsided  behind  the  fresh  pil 
lows  of  the  bed.  Jonathan  sprang  up.  "Wait! 
I'll  get  it!"  He  carefully  drew  away  the  pil 
low,  his  hand  was  almost  on  the  poor  little 
quivering  wretch,  when  it  made  another 


AN  UNPROGRESSIVE  FARM  23 

rush,  hurled  itself  against  the  mirror,  upset  a 
vase  full  of  columbines,  and  finally  sank  be 
hind  the  wood-box.  At  last  it  was  caught,  and 
Jonathan,  going  over  to  the  hearth,  resumed 
his  former  position.  "Jonathan!  Put  him 
out  of  doors!"  I  exclaimed.  "Sh-h-h,"  he 
responded,  "I'm  going  to  teach  him  to  go 
back  the  way  he  came.  There  he  goes !  see?  " 
He  rose,  triumphant,  and  began  to  brush  the 
soot  out  of  his  collar  and  hair.  I  was  sorry  to 
dash  such  enthusiasm,  but  I  felt  my  resolu 
tion  hardening  within  me. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  "we  did  not  come  to 
the  farm  to  train  chimney  swallows.  Besides, 
I  don't  wish  them  trained,  I  wish  them  kept 
out.  I  don't  regard  them  as  suitable  for  house 
hold  pets.  If  you  will  sink  to  a  pet  bird,  get  a 
canary." 

"But  you  wouldn't  have  an  old  house 
without  chimney  swallows!"  he  remonstrated 
in  tones  of  real  pain. 

"I  would  indeed." 

It  ended  in  a  compromise.  At  the  top  of 
the  chimney  Jonathan  put  a  netting  over  half 
the  flues;  the  others  he  left  open  at  the  top, 
but  set  in  nettings  in  the  corresponding  flues 


24  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

just  above  each  fireplace.  And  so  in  half  the 
chimney  the  swallows  still  build,  but  the 
young  ones  now  drop  on  the  nettings  instead 
of  in  the  embers,  and  lie  there  cheeping  shrilly 
until  somehow  their  parents  or  friends  convey 
them  up  again  where  they  belong.  And  I  no 
longer  spend  my  mornings  collecting  apron- 
fulsof  frightened  and  battered  little  creatures. 
At  dusk  the  swallows  still  eddy  and  circle 
about  the  chimney,  but  Jonathan  has  lost  the 
opportunity  for  training  them.  Once  more 
the  optimist  is  balked. 

But  in  these  matters  I  am  firm:  I  do  not 
want  the  hens  made  intelligent,  or  the  orchard 
improved,  or  the  swallows  trained.  There  is, 
I  am  sure,  matter  enough  in  other  parts  of  the 
farm  upon  which  one  may  wreak  one's  optim 
ism.  I  hold  me  to  my  tidy  hearths,  my  com 
fortable  hens,  my  old  lilacs,  and  my  dream 
ing  apple  trees. 


Ill 

A  Desultory  Pilgrimage 

MANY  of  our  friends  seem  to  be  taking  auto 
mobile  trips  during  the  summer  months  — 
very  rapid  trips,  since,  as  they  explain,  "it 
strains  the  machine  to  go  too  slowly,  you 
know."  Jonathan  and  I  wanted  to  take  a  trip 
too,  and  we  looked  about  us  on  the  old  farm 
for  a  conveyance.  The  closest  scrutiny  failed 
to  discover  an  automobile,  but  there  were 
other  vehicles  —  there  was  the  old  sleigh  in 
the  back  of  the  woodshed,  where  the  hens 
loved  to  steal  nests,  and  the  old  surrey, 
shabby  but  willing,  and  the  business  wagon, 
still  shabbier  but  no  less  willing;  there  were 
the  two  lumber  wagons,  one  rather  more 
lumbering  than  the  other;  and  there  were  also 
various  farming  vehicles  whose  names  and 
uses  I  have  never  fathomed,  with  knives  and 
long  raking  arrangements,  very  uncomfortable 
to  step  over  when  hunting  in  the  dark  corners 
of  the  barns  for  hens'  nests  or  new  kittens. 


26  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Moreover,  there  was  Kit,  the  old  bay  mare, 
also  shabby  but  willing.  That  is,  willing 
"within  reason,"  although  it  must  be  admitted 
that  Kit's  ideas  of  what  was  reasonable  were 
distinctly  conservative.  The  chief  practical 
difference  between  Kit  and  an  automobile, 
considered  as  a  motive  power,  was  that  it  did 
not  strain  Kit  in  the  least  to  go  slowly.  This 
we  considered  an  advantage,  slow-going 
being  what  we  particularly  wished,  and  we 
decided  that  Kit  would  do. 

For  our  conveyance  we  chose  the  business 
wagon  —  a  plain  box  body,  with  a  seat  across 
and  room  behind  for  a  trunk;  but  in  addition 
Jonathan  put  in  a  shallow  box  under  the  seat, 
nailed  to  cleats  on  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  so 
that  it  would  not  shift  and  rain  would  run 
under  it.  In  this  we  put  the  things  we  needed 
by  the  roadside  —  the  camping-kit,  drink- 
ing-cups,  bait-boxes,  camera,  and  so  on.  Then 
we  stowed  our  trout  rods  and  baskets,  and 
one  morning  in  June  we  started. 

Our  plan  was  to  drive  and  fish  through  the 
day,  cook  our  own  noon  meal,  and  put  up  at 
night  wherever  we  could  be  taken  in,  avoid 
ing  cities  and  villages  as  far  as  possible.  Be- 


A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE  27 

yond  that  we  had  no  plan.  Indeed,  this  was 
the  best  of  it  all,  that  we  did  not  have  to  get 
anywhere  in  particular  at  any  particular  time. 
We  did  not  decide  on  one  day  where  we  would 
go  the  next;  we  did  not  even  decide  in  the 
morning  where  we  would  go  in  the  afternoon. 
If  we  found  a  brook  where  the  trout  bit,  and 
there  was  no  inhospitable  "poster"  warning 
us  away,  we  said,  "Let's  stay!  who  cares 
whether  we  get  on  or  not?"  And  we  tied  Kit 
to  a  tree,  took  out  our  rods  and  baskets,  and 
followed  the  brook.  If  noon  found  us  still 
fishing,  we  came  back  to  the  wagon,  fed  Kit, 
got  out  our  camping-outfit,  and  cooked  our 
fish  for  luncheon.  It  did  not  take  long.  I  col 
lected  kindling  and  firewood  while  Jonathan 
was  laying  a  few  big  stones  for  a  fireplace 
shaped  like  a  squared  letter  "C,"  open 
towards  the  wind  and  big  enough  to  hold  our 
frying-pan.  Then  we  started  the  fire,  and 
while  it  was  settling  into  shape  Jonathan 
dressed  the  fish  and  cut  a  long  stick  to  fit  into 
the  hollow  handle  of  the  frying-pan,  and  I  had 
time  to  slice  bits  of  pork  and  set  out  the  rest 
of  the  luncheon  —  bread  and  butter,  milk  if 
we  happened  to  have  passed  a  dairy  farm,  a 


28  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

pineapple  or  oranges  if  we  happened  to  have 
met  a  peddler,  strawberries  if  we  had  chanced 
upon  one  of  the  sandy  spots  where  the  wild 
ones  grow  so  thickly. 

Then  the  pan  was  set  over,  the  pork  was 
laid  in,  and  soon  the  little  fish  were  curling  up 
their  tails  in  the  fragrant  smoke.  If  they  were 
big  and  needed  long  cooking,  I  had  time  to 
toast  bread  or  biscuit  in  the  embers  under 
neath  for  an  added  luxury,  and  when  all  was 
ready  we  sat  down  in  supreme  contentment. 
And  we  never  forgot  to  give  Kit  a  lump  of 
sugar,  or  some  clover  tops,  that  she  might 
share  in  the  picnic.  But  every  now  and  then 
she  would  turn  and  regard  us  with  eyes  that 
expressed  many  things,  but  chiefly  wonder 
at  the  queerness  of  folks  who  could  prefer  not 
to  go  back  to  their  own  stable  to  eat.  When 
luncheon  was  over,  the  dishes  washed  in  the 
brook,  and  the  wagon  repacked,  we  ambled 
on,  leaving  our  little  fireplace,  with  its  black 
ened  stones  and  its  heart  of  gray  ashes. 

No  one  who  has  never  tried  such  an  aimless 
life  can  realize  its  charm  and  its  restfulness. 
Most  of  us  spend  our  days  catching  trains, 
and  running  to  the  telephone,  and  meeting 


A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE  29 

engagements.  Even  our  pleasures  are  seldom 
emancipated  from  these  requirements;  they 
are  dependent  on  boats  and  trolley  cars  and 
trains,  they  are  measured  out  in  hours  and 
minutes,  and  we  snatch  them  running,  as  the 
Israelites  did  their  water.  But  this  trip  of  ours 
was  bounded  only  by  the  circle  of  the  week, 
and  conditioned  only  by  the  limitations  of  Kit. 
No  one  could  telephone  to  us,  even  at  night, 
because  no  one  knew  where  we  were  to  be.  As 
for  trains,  we  never  once  saw  one.  Now  and 
then  we  heard  one  whistle,  so  far  away  that 
it  merely  emphasized  its  own  remoteness,  and 
a  few  times  we  were  compelled  to  cross  over 
or  under  a  track  —  a  very  little  track,  and 
single  at  that;  beyond  this  our  connection 
with  the  symbol  of  Hurry  did  not  go. 

The  limitations  of  Kit  were  indeed  definite 
and  insurmountable.  While  her  speed  on  a 
level  was  most  moderate,  uphill  it  was  actu 
ally  glacial,  and  going  downhill  it  was  little 
better.  For  Kit  had  come  from  the  level  West, 
and  being,  as  we  have  said,  conservative,  she 
could  never  reach  any  real  understanding  of 
hills.  She  was  willing  and  conscientious,  but 
prudent,  and  although  she  went  downhill 


30  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

when  she  was  requested  to,  she  did  it  very 
much  as  an  old  lady  might  go  down  a  precip 
ice  —  she  let  herself  down,  half  sitting,  with 
occasional  gentle  groans,  rocking  from  side  to 
side  like  a  boat  in  a  chop  sea.  Now  all  New 
England  is  practically  either  uphill  or  down 
hill,  and,  if  we  had  been  in  any  haste,  these 
characteristics  of  Kit  might  have  annoyed  us; 
but  inasmuch  as  we  did  not  care  where  we 
went  or  when  we  got  there,  what  difference 
did  it  make?  In  fact,  it  was  rather  a  relief  to 
be  thus  firmly  bound  to  sobriety. 

In  one  respect  we  could  not  be  absolutely 
irresponsible,  however.  We  found  it  advisable 
to  seek  out  our  night's  lodging  while  it  was 
yet  light  enough  for  the  farmer's  wife  to  look 
us  over  and  see  that  we  were  respectable. 
Our  first  night  out  we  failed  to  realize  this,  and 
we  paid  for  it  by  being  forced  to  put  up  at  a 
commonplace  village  inn,  instead  of  a  farm 
house.  After  that  we  managed  to  begin  our 
search  for  a  hostess  about  milking-time,  and 
we  had  little  further  trouble.  Indeed,  one  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  week  was  the  hospitality 
we  received;  and  our  opinion  of  the  New 
England  farmer,  his  wife  and  his  children, 


A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE  31 

grew  higher  as  the  days  passed.  Courteous 
hospitality,  or,  if  hospitality  had  to  be  with 
held,  courteous  regret,  was  the  rule.  Twice, 
when  one  house  could  not  take  us  in,  they 
telephoned  —  for  the  telephone  is  everywhere 
now  —  about  the  neighborhood  among  friends 
until  they  found  a  lodging  for  us.  And  pleas 
ant  lodgings  they  always  proved. 

One  exception  there  was.  We  drew  up  one 
afternoon  by  a  well-kept  little  house  with  a 
good  English  name  on  the  post-box,  and,  as 
usual,  I  held  the  reins  while  Jonathan  went 
up  to  the  side  door  to  make  inquiries.  After 
he  had  started  up  the  path  I  saw,  from  my 
vantage-point,  the  lady  of  the  farm  returning 
from  her  "garden  patch,"  and  my  heart  went 
out  in  pity  to  Jonathan.  If  I  could  have  called 
him  back  I  would  have  done  so,  merely  on  the 
testimony  of  the  lady's  gait  and  figure.  I  had 
never  fully  realized  how  expressive  these 
could  be.  Her  hips,  her  shoulders,  the  set  of 
her  head,  the  way  she  planted  her  feet  on 
the  uneven  flagging-stones  of  the  path,  each 
heavy  line  and  each  sodden  motion,  bespoke 
inhospitality,  intolerance,  impenetrable  dis 
approval  of  everything  unfamiliar.  I  watched 


32  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Jonathan  turn  back  from  the  door  at  the 
sound  of  her  steps,  and  in  the  short  colloquy 
that  followed,  though  I  could  hear  nothing, 
I  could  see  those  hips  and  shoulders  settling 
themselves  yet  more  decisively,  while  Jona 
than's  attitude  grew  more  studiously  courte 
ous.  But  when  he  had  lifted  his  hat  again  and 
turned  from  that  monument  of  immobile 
unpleasantness  I  saw  his  face  relax  into  lines, 
partly  of  amusement,  partly  of  chagrin;  and 
as  he  took  his  seat  beside  me  and  drove  on,  he 
murmured  snatches  of  quotation  —  "No; 
couldn't  possibly,"  "No;  don't  know  any 
body  that  could,"  "No;  never  did  such  a 
thing,"  "No;  the  people  in  the  next  house  've 
just  had  a  funeral;  sure  they  could  n't";  and 
finally  he  broke  into  a  chuckle  as  he  quoted, 
"Well,  there  is  some  folks  about  two  mile 
down  might  mebbe  take  ye;  they  does  some 
times  harbor  peddlers  'n'  such  like."  Jona 
than  was  hardly  willing  to  try  again  so  near 
by;  he  regarded  the  whole  neighborhood  as 
tainted.  Yet  it  was  little  more  than  two  miles 
beyond,  on  that  same  afternoon,  that  we 
found  lodgings  with  the  most  delightful,  the 
most  hospitable  friends  of  all  —  for  friends 


A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE  33 

they  became,  taking  us  into  their  circle  as  if 
we  belonged  to  it  by  right  of  birth,  coddling 
us  as  one  ought  never  to  expect  to  be  coddled 
save  by  one's  own  mother  or  grandmother. 

Ostensibly,  our  drive  was  a  trout -fishing 
trip,  and  part  of  the  fun  certainly  was  the 
fishing.  Not  that  we  caught  so  many.  If  we 
had  seriously  wished  to  make  a  score,  we  might 
better  have  stayed  at  home  and  fished  in  our 
own  haunts,  where  we  knew  every  pool  and 
just  how  and  when  to  fish  it.  But  it  was  inter 
esting  to  explore  new  brooks,  and  as  we  never 
failed  to  get  enough  trout  for  at  least  one 
meal  a  day,  what  more  could  we  wish?  And 
such  brooks !  New  England  is  surely  the  land 
of  beautiful  brooks.  They  are  all  lovely  — 
the  meadow  brooks,  gliding  silently  beneath 
the  deep-tufted  grasses,  where  the  trout  live 
in  shadow  even  at  noonday,  and  their  speckled 
flanks  are  dark  like  the  pools  they  lie  in;  the 
pasture  brooks,  whose  clear  water  is  always 
golden  from  the  yellow  sand  and  pebbles  and 
leaves  it  ripples  over,  and  the  trout  are  sil 
very  and  pale-spotted ;  the  brooks  of  the  deep 
woods,  where  the  foam  of  rapids  and  the  spray 
of  noisy  little  waterfalls  alternate  with  the 


34  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

stillness  of  rock-bound,  hemlock-shadowed 
pools.  All  the  brooks  we  followed,  whether 
with  good  luck  or  with  bad,  I  remember  with 
delight.  No,  all  except  one.  But  I  do  not 
blame  the  brook. 

It  happened  in  this  way:  One  Monday 
morning,  after  an  abstemious  Sunday,  the 
zeal  of  Jonathan  brought  us  forth  at  dawn  — • 
in  fact,  a  little  before  dawn.  I  had  consented, 
because,  although  my  zeal  compared  to  Jona 
than's  is  as  a  flapping  hen  compared  to  a  soar 
ing  eagle,  yet  I  reflected  that  I  should  enjoy 
the  sunrise  and  the  early  bird -songs.  We 
emerged,  therefore,  in  the  dusk  of  young 
morning,  and  I  had  my  first  reward  in  a  lovely 
view  of  meadows  half-veiled  in  silvery  mist, 
where  the  brook  wound,  and  upland  pastures 
of  pale  gray-green  against  ridges  of  shadowy 
woods.  But  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  sensa 
tion  produced  by  the  actual  plunge  into  those 
same  meadows.  I  say  plunge  advisedly.  I 
shiver  yet  as  I  recall  the  icy  chill  of  that  dew- 
drenched  grass.  It  was  worse  than  wading  a 
brook,  because  there  was  no  reaction.  Jona 
than,  however,  did  not  seem  depressed  by  it, 
so  I  followed  his  eager  steps  without  remark. 


A  DESULTORY  PILGRIMAGE  35 

We  reached  the  brook,  we  put  our  rods  to 
gether,  and  baited.  "Crawl,  now,"  admon 
ished  Jonathan;  "they're  shy  fellows  in  those 
open  pools."  We  crawled,  dropped  in,  and 
waited.  My  teeth  were  chattering,  my  lips 
felt  blue,  but  I  would  not  be  beaten  by  a  little 
wet  grass.  After  a  few  casts,  Jonathan  mur 
mured,  "That's  funny,"  and  moved  cau 
tiously  on  to  the  next  pool.  Then  he  tried 
swift  water,  then  little  rapids.  I  proceeded  in 
chilly  meekness,  glad  of  a  chance  at  a  little 
exercise  now  and  then  when  we  had  to  climb 
around  rocks  or  over  a  stone  wall.  Occasion 
ally  I  straightened  up  and  gazed  out  over  the 
meadows  —  those  clammy  meadows  —  and 
up  toward  the  high  woods,  brightening  into 
the  deep  greens  of  daylight.  The  east  was  all 
rose  and  primrose,  but  I  found  myself  unable 
to  think  of  the  sun  as  an  aesthetic  feature;  I 
longed  for  its  good,  honest  heat.  A  stove,  or  a 
hot  soapstone,  would  have  done  as  well. 

After  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  this  I  ventured 
a  remark  —  "Jonathan,  you  have  often  told 
me  of  the  delights  of  dawn  fishing."  Jonathan 
was  extricating  his  line  from  an  alder  bush, 
and  did  not  answer.  I  could  not  resist  adding, 


36  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"  I  think  you  said  that  the  trout  —  bit  —  at 
dawn."  Continued  silence  warned  me  that  I 
had  said  enough,  and  I  tactfully  changed  the 
subject:  "What  I  am  sorry  for  is  the  birds' 
nests  up  in  those  fields.  How  do  the  eggs  ever 
hatch  —  in  ice  water !  And  how  do  the  straw 
berries  ever  ripen,  in  cold  storage  every  night 
—  ugh !  Let 's  go  back  and  get  some  hot  coffee 
and  go  to  bed!" 

And  that  is  my  one  experience  with  dawn 
fishing.  But  Jonathan,  reacting  from  the 
experience  with  the  temper  of  the  true  en 
thusiast,  still  maintains  that  trout  do  bite  at 
dawn.  Perhaps  they  do.  But  for  me,  no  more 
early-dewy  meadows,  except  to  look  at. 

Those  hours  of  dawn  fishing  were  the  hard 
est  work  I  did  during  the  week.  A  lazy  week, 
in  truth,  and  an  irresponsible  one.  Every  one 
who  can  should  snatch  such  a  week  and  see 
what  it  does  for  him.  In  some  ways  it  was 
better  than  camping,  because  camping,  unless 
you  have  guides,  is  undoubtedly  hard  work, 
especially  if  you  keep  moving  —  work  that 
one  would  never  grudge,  yet  hard  work  never 
theless.  The  omitting  of  the  night  camp  cut 
out  practically  all  the  work  and  made  it  more 


A  DESULTORY   PILGRIMAGE  37 

comfortable  for  the  horse,  while  our  noon 
camps  made  us  independent  all  day,  and  gave 
us  that  sense  of  being  at  home  outdoors  that 
one  never  gets  if  one  has  to  run  to  cover  for 
every  meal. 

And,  curiously  enough,  the  spots  that  seem 
homelike  to  me,  as  I  linger  in  memory  among 
the  scenes  of  that  week,  are  not  the  places 
where  we  spent  the  nights,  pleasant  though 
they  were,  but  rather  the  spots  where  we 
built  our  little  fireplaces.  Each  was  for  an 
hour  our  hearth-fire,  —  our  own,  —  and  I  do 
not  forget  them,  —  some  beside  the  open  road, 
one  on  a  ridge  where  the  sun  slants  across  as  it 
goes  down  among  purpling  hills;  one  in  the 
deep  woods,  by  a  little  trout  brook,  where  the 
sound  of  running  water  never  ceases;  one  in 
an  open  grove  by  the  river  we  love  best,  where 
a  tiny  brook  with  brown  pools  full  of  the  shad 
owy  trout  empties  its  cold  waters  into  the 
big,  warm  current.  Perhaps  no  one  else  may 
notice  them,  but  they  are  there,  waiting  for 
us,  if  haply  we  may  pass  that  way  again.  And 
if  we  do,  we  shall  surely  pause  and  give  them 
greeting. 


IV 

The  Yellow  Valley 

WE  were  on  our  way  to  the  Yellow  Valley. 
We  had  been  pushing  against  the  wind, 
through  the  red  March  mud  of  a  ploughed 
field.  Mud  is  a  very  good  thing  in  its  place, 
and  if  its  place  is  not  a  ploughed  field  in 
March,  I  know  of  no  better.  But  it  does  not 
encourage  lightness  of  foot.  At  an  especially 
big  and  burly  gust  of  wind  I  stopped,  turned 
my  back  for  respite,  and  dropped  into  the  lee 
of  Jonathan.  Wind  is  a  good  thing,  too,  in  its 
place,  but  one  does  not  care  to  drown  in  it. 

"Jonathan,"  I  gasped,  "this  is  n't  spring; 
it's  winter  of  the  most  furious  description. 
Let's  reform  the  calendar  and  put  up  signs 
to  warn  the  flowers.  But  I  want  my  spring! 
I  want  it  now!" 

"Well,"  said  Jonathan,  "there  it  is.  Look!" 
And  he  pointed  across  the  brush  of  the  near 
fence  line,  where  a  meadow  stretched  away, 
brown  with  the  stubble  and  matted  tangle  of 


THE  YELLOW  VALLEY  39 

last  year's  grass.  Halfway  up  the  springy 
slope,  in  a  little  fold  of  the  hillside,  was  a  shim 
mer  of  green  —  vivid,  wonderful. 

I  forgot  the  wind.  "Oh-h!  Think  of  being 
a  cow  now  and  eating  that!  Eating  spring 
itself!" 

"If  you  were  a  cow,"  said  Jonathan,  with 
the  usual  masculine  command  of  applicable 
information,  "they  would  n't  let  you  eat  it." 

"They  would  n't!  Why  not?  Does  it  make 
them  sick?" 

"No;  crazy." 

"Crazy!" 

"Just  that.  Crazy  for  grass.  They  won't 
touch  hay  any  more,  and  there  is  n't  enough 
grass  for  them  —  and  there  you  are!" 

"Did  you  make  that  up  as  you  went  along, 
Jonathan?" 

"Ask  any  farmer." 

But  I  think  I  will  not  ask  a  farmer.  He 
might  say  it  was  not  true,  and  I  like  to  think 
it  is.  I  am  sorry  the  cows  cannot  have  their 
grass,  but  glad  they  have  the  good  taste  to 
refuse  hay.  I  should,  if  I  were  a  cow.  Not 
being  one,  I  do  not  need  an  actual  patch  of 
green  nibble  to  set  me  crazy.  The  smell  of  the 


40  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

earth  after  a  thaw,  a  breath  of  soft  air,  a  wave 
of  delicious  sweetness,  in  April,  in  March,  in 
February,  —  when  it  comes  in  January  I 
harden  my  heart  and  try  not  to  notice,  — 
this  is  enough  to  spoil  me  for  the  dry  fodder  of 
winter.  Hay  may  be  good  and  wholesome, 
but  I  have  had  my  taste  of  spring  grass,  and 
it  is  enough.  That  or  nothing.  No  more  hay 
for  me! 

What  that  strange  sweetness  of  the  early 
spring  is  I  have  never  fully  discovered.  The 
fragrance  of  flowers  is  in  it,  —  hepaticas, 
white  violets,  arbutus,  —  yet  it  is  none  of 
these.  It  comes  before  any  of  the  flowers  are 
even  astir,  when  the  arbutus  buds  are  still 
tight  little  green  points,  when  the  hepaticas 
have  scarcely  pushed  open  their  winter 
sheaths,  while  their  soft  little  gray-furred 
heads  are  still  tucked  down  snugly,  like  a 
bird's  head  under  its  wing.  Before  even  the 
snowdrops  at  our  feet  and  the  maples  over 
head  have  thought  of  blossoming,  a  soft 
breath  may  blow  across  our  path  filled  with 
this  wondrous  fragrance.  It  is  like  a  dream  of 
May.  One  might  believe  the  fairies  were  pass 
ing  by. 


THE  YELLOW  VALLEY  41 

For  years  I  was  completely  baffled  by  it. 
But  one  March,  in  the  farm  orchard,  I  found 
out  part  of  the  secret.  I  was  planting  my 
sweet  peas,  when  the  well-remembered  and 
bewildering  fragrance  blew  across  me.  I 
sprang  up  and  ran  up  the  wind,  and  there,  in 
the  midst  of  the  old  orchard,  I  came  upon  an 
old  apple  tree  just  cut  down  by  the  thrift  of 
Jonathan's  farmer,  who  has  no  silly  weakness 
for  old  apple  trees.  The  fresh-cut  wood  was 
moist  with  sap,  and  as  I  bent  over  it  —  ah, 
there  it  was!  Here  were  my  hepaticas,  my 
arbutus,  here  in  the  old  apple  tree!  Such  a 
surprise !  I  sat  down  beside  it  to  think  it  over. 
I  was  sorry  it  was  cut  down,  but  glad  it  had 
told  me  its  secret  before  it  was  made  into 
logs  and  piled  in  the  woodshed.  Blazing  in 
the  fireplace  it  would  tell  me  many  things, 
but  it  might  perhaps  not  have  told  me 
that. 

And  so  I  knew  part  of  the  secret.  But  only 
part.  For  the  same  fragrance  has  blown  to 
me  often  where  there  were  no  orchards  and 
no  newly  felled  apple  trees,  and  I  have  never, 
except  this  once,  been  able  to  trace  it.  If  it  is 
the  flowing  sap  in  all  trees,  why  are  not  the 


42  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

spring  woods  full  of  it?  But  they  are  not  full 
of  it;  it  comes  only  now  and  then,  with  tan 
talizing  capriciousness.  Do  sound  trees  ex 
hale  it,  certain  kinds,  when  the  sap  starts,  or 
must  they  have  been  cut  or  bruised,  if  not  by 
the  axe,  perhaps  by  the  winter  winds  and 
the  ice  storms?  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know 
that  when  that  breath  of  sweetness  comes, 
it  is  the  very  breath  of  spring  itself;  it  is 
the  call  of  spring  out  of  winter  —  spring 
grass. 

When  the  call  of  the  spring  grass  comes, 
there  is  always  one  spot  that  draws  me  with  a 
special  insistence,  and  every  year  we  have 
much  the  same  talk  about  it. 

"Jonathan,"  I  say,  "let's  go  to  the  Yellow 
Valley." 

"Why,"  says  Jonathan,  "there  will  be 
more  new  birds  up  on  the  ridge." 

"I  don't  care  about  new  birds.  The  old 
ones  do  very  well  for  me." 

"And  you  might  find  the  first  hepaticas 
under  Indian  Rock." 

"I  know.  We'll  go  there  next." 

"And  if  we  went  farther  up  the  river,  we 
might  see  some  black  duck." 


THE  YELLOW  VALLEY  43 

"Very  likely;  but  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  par 
ticularly  had  to  see  black  duck  to-day." 
"What  do  you  have  to  see?" 
"Nothing  special.  Just  plain  spring." 
That  is  the  charm  of  the  Yellow  Valley. 
It  offers  no  spectacular  inducements,  no  bar 
gain-counter  attractions  in  the  shape  of  new 
arrivals  among  the  birds  or  flowers.  One  re 
turns  from  it  with  no  trophies  of  any  kind, 
nothing  to  put  down  in  one's  notebook,  if 
one  keeps  a  notebook,  —  from  which  industry 
may  I  be  forever  preserved!  But  it  is  a  place 
to  go  to  and  be  quiet,  which  is  good  for  us  all, 
especially  in  the  springtime,  when  there  is  so 
much  going  on  in  the  world,  and  especially 
lately,  since  "nature  study"  has  driven  peo 
ple  into  being  so  unceasingly  busy  when  they 
are  outdoors.  Opera-glasses  and  bird  books 
have  their  place,  no  doubt,  in  the  advance  of 
mankind,  but  they  often  seem  to  me  nothing 
but  more  machinery  coming  in  between  us 
and  the  real  things.  Perhaps  it  was  once  true 
that  when  people  went  out  to  view  "nature," 
they  did  not  see  enough.  Now,  I  fancy,  they 
see  too  much;  they  cannot  see  the  spring  for 
the  birds.  Their  motto  is  that  of  Rikki-Tikki, 


44  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  mongoose,  "Run  and  find  out"  —  an 
excellent  motto  for  a  mongoose,  —  but  for 
people  on  a  spring  ramble  ! 

The  unquenchable  ardor  of  the  bird  lover, 
so  called,  fills  me  with  dismay.  One  enthus 
iast,  writing  in  a  school  journal,  describes  the 
difficulties  of  following  up  the  birds:  "Often 
eyes  all  around  one's  head,  with  opera-glasses 
focused  at  each  pair,  would  not  suffice  to  keep 
the  restless  birds  in  view."  If  this  is  the  ideal 
of  the  bird  lover,  it  is  not  mine.  I  wonder  she 
did  not  wish  for  extra  pairs  of  legs  to  match 
each  set  of  eyes  and  opera-glasses,  and  a  divis 
ible  body,  so  that  she  might  scamper  off  in 
sections  after  all  these  marvels.  For  myself, 
one  pair  of  eyes  gives  me,  I  find,  all  the  satis 
faction  and  delight  I  know  what  to  do  with, 
and  I  cannot  help  feeling  that,  if  I  had  more,  I 
should  have  less.  The  same  writer  speaks  of 
the  "maddening"  warbler  notes.  Why  mad 
dening?  Because,  forsooth,  there  are  thirty 
warblers,  and  one  cannot  learn  all  their 
names.  What  a  pity  to  be  maddened  by  a  little 
warbler!  And  about  a  matter  of  names,  too. 
After  all,  the  bird,  the  song,  is  the  thing.  And 
it  seems  a  pity  to  carry  the  chasing  of  bird 


THE  YELLOW  VALLEY  45 

notes  quite  so  far.  They  are  meant,  I  feel 
sure,  to  be  hearkened  to  in  quietness  of  spirit, 
to  be  tasted  delicately,  as  one  would  a  wine. 
The  life  of  the  opera-glassed  bird  hunter,  com 
pared  to  mine,  seems  to  me  like  the  experi 
ence  of  a  tea-taster  compared  to  that  of  one 
who  sits  in  cozy  and  irresponsible  enjoyment 
of  the  cup  her  friend  hands  her. 

And  so  there  always  comes  a  time  in  the 
spring  when  I  must  go  to  my  Yellow  Valley. 
A  car  ride,  a  walk  on  through  plain  little  sub 
urbs,  a  scramble  across  fields  to  a  seldom-used 
railway  track,  a  swing  out  along  the  ties,  then 
off  across  more  fields,  over  a  little  ridge,  and 
—  there!  Oh,  the  soft  glory  of  color!  We  are 
at  the  west  end  of  a  miniature  valley,  full  of 
afternoon  sunlight  slanting  across  a  level  blur 
of  yellows  and  browns.  On  one  side  low  brown 
hills  enfold  it,  on  the  other  runs  a  swift  little 
river,  whose  steep  farther  bank  is  overhung 
with  hemlocks  and  laurel  in  brightening  spring 
green.  It  is  a  very  tiny  valley,  —  one  could 
almost  throw  a  stone  across  it,  —  and  the 
whole  bottom  is  filled  with  waving  grass, 
waist-high,  of  a  wonderful  pale  straw  color; 
last  year's  grass,  which  the  winter  snows 


46  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

never  seem  to  mat  down,  thick-set  with  the 
tall  brown  stalks  of  last  year's  goldenrod  and 
mullein  and  primrose.  The  trees  and  bushes 
are  dwarf  oaks,  with  their  old  leafage  still 
clinging  in  tawny  masses,  and  willows,  with 
their  bunches  of  slim,  yellow  shoots.  Even  the 
little  river  is  yellow-brown,  from  the  sand  and 
pebbles  and  leaves  of  its  bed,  and  the  sun,  as 
it  slants  down  the  length  of  the  valley,  wraps 
it  in  a  warm,  yellow  haze. 

I  call  the  valley  mine,  for  no  one  else  seems 
to  know  it.  The  long  grass  is  never  cut,  but 
left  to  wave  its  glory  of  yellow  all  through  the 
fall  and  winter  and  spring.  There  is  a  little 
footpath  running  through  it,  but  I  never  see 
any  one  on  it.  I  often  wonder  who  makes 
all  the  footpaths  I  know,  where  no  one  ever 
seems  to  pass.  Is  it  rabbits,  or  ghosts?  Who 
ever  they  may  be,  in  this  case  they  do  not 
trouble  me,  and  the  valley  is  as  much  mine  as 
though  I  had  cut  it  out  of  a  mediaeval  romance. 

It  is  always  very  quiet  here.  At  least  it 
seems  so,  though  full  of  sound,  as  the  world 
always  is.  But  its  sounds  are  its  own;  perhaps 
that  is  the  secret;  the  rustle  of  the  oak  leaves 
as  the  wind  fumbles  among  them;  the  swish- 


THE  YELLOW  VALLEY  47 

swish  of  the  long  dry  grasses,  which  can  be 
heard  only  if  one  sits  down  in  their  midst, 
very  still;  the  light,  purling  sounds  of  the 
river;  the  soft  gush  of  water  about  some  bend 
ing  branch  as  its  tip  catches  and  drags  in  the 
shifting  current.  The  winds  lose  a  little  of 
their  fierceness  as  they  drop  into  the  valley, 
and  they  seem  to  have  left  behind  them  all 
the  sounds  of  the  outer  world  which  they  usu 
ally  bear.  If  now  and  then  they  waft  hither- 
ward  the  long  call  of  a  locomotive,  they  soften 
it  till  it  is  only  a  dreamy  reminder. 

It  is  strange  that  in  a  spot  so  specially  full 
of  the  tokens  of  last  year's  life,  —  the  dry 
grasses,  the  old  oak  leaves  not  yet  pushed  off 
by  the  new  buds,  —  where  the  only  green  is 
of  the  hemlocks  and  laurels  that  have  weath 
ered  the  winter,  —  it  is  strange  that  in  such 
a  spot  one  should  feel  the  immanence  of 
spring.  Perhaps  it  is  the  bluebird  that  does  it. 
For  it  is  the  bluebird's  valley  as  well  as  mine. 
There  are  other  birds  there,  but  not  many, 
and  it  is  the  bluebird  which  best  voices  the 
spirit  of  the  place.  Most  birds  in  the  spring 
imply  an  audience.  The  song  sparrow,  with 
the  lift  and  the  lilt  of  his  song,  sings  to  the 


48  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

universe;  the  red-wing  calls  to  all  the  sunny 
world  to  be  gleeful  with  him;  the  long-drawn 
sweetness  of  the  meadowlark  floats  over 
broad  meadows  and  wide  horizons;  the  bobo 
link,  in  the  tumbling  eagerness  of  his  jubila 
tion,  is  for  every  one  to  hear.  But  the  blue 
bird  sings  to  himself.  His  gentle  notes,  not 
heard  but  overheard,  are  for  those  who  listen 
softly.  And  in  the  Yellow  Valley  he  is  at 
home. 

I  am  at  home,  too,  and  I  find  there  some 
thing  that  I  find  nowhere  else  so  well.  Its 
charm  is  in  the  simpleness  of  its  appeal :  — 

"Only  the  mightier  movement  sounds  and  passes, 
Only  winds  and  rivers  — " 

I  bring  back  from  it  a  memory  of  sunshine 
and  grass,  bird  notes  and  running  water,  the 
broad  realities  of  nature.  Nay,  more  than  a 
memory  —  a  mood  that  holds  —  a  certain 
poise  of  spirit  that  comes  from  a  sense  of  the 
largeness  and  sweetness  and  sufficiency  of  the 
whole  live,  growing  world.  Spring  grass  — 
the  rare  fragrance  of  the  spring  air  —  is  the 
call.  The  Yellow  Valley  holds  the  answer. 


V 

Larkspurs  and  Hollyhocks 

"JONATHAN,  let's  not  have  a  garden." 
"What  '11  we  live  on  if  we  don't?" 
"Oh,  of  course,  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  a 

garden,  —  peas  and  potatoes  and  things,  — 

I  mean  flowers.    Let's  not  have  a  flower 

garden." 

"That  seems  easy  enough  to  manage,"  he 

ruminated;  "the  hard  thing  would  be  to  have 


one." 


"I  know.  And  what's  the  use?  There  are 
always  flowers  enough,  all  around  us,  from 
May  till  October.  Let's  just  enjoy  them." 

"I  always  have." 

I  looked  at  him  to  detect  a  possible  sarcasm 
in  the  words,  but  his  face  was  innocent. 

"Well,  of  course,  so  have  I.  But  what  I 
mean  is  —  people  when  they  have  a  country 
place  seem  to  spend  such  a  lot  of  energy  doing 
things  for  themselves  that  nature  is  doing  for 
them  just  over  the  fence.  There  was  Christa- 


50  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

bel  Vincent  last  summer,  grubbing  over  yel 
low  lilies,  or  something,  and  I  went  over  into 
the  meadow  and  got  a  lovely  armful  of  lilies 
and  brought  them  in,  and  no  grubbing  at  all." 

"Perhaps  grubbing  was  what  she  was 
after,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well,  anyway,  she  talked  as  if  it  was 
lilies." 

"I  don't  know  that  that  matters,"  he  said. 

Jonathan  is  sometimes  so  acute  about  my 
friends  that  it  is  almost  annoying. 

This  conversation  was  one  of  many  that 
occurred  the  winter  before  we  took  up  the 
farm.  We  went  up  in  April  that  year,  and  we 
planted  our  corn  and  our  potatoes  and  all  the 
rest,  but  no  flowers.  That  part  we  left  to 
nature,  and  she  responded  most  generously. 
From  earliest  spring  until  October  —  nay, 
November  —  we  were  never  without  flowers : 
brave  little  white  saxifrage  and  hepaticas, 
first  of  all,  then  bloodroot  and  arbutus,  ad- 
der's-tongue  and  columbine,  shad-blow  and 
dogwood,  and  all  the  beloved  throng  of 
them,  at  our  feet  and  overhead.  In  May  the 
pink  azalea  and  the  buttercups,  in  June  the 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        51 

laurel  and  the  daisies  and  —  almost  best  of 
all  —  the  dear  clover.  In  summer  the  deep 
woods  gave  us  orchids,  and  the  open  mead 
ows  lilies  and  black-eyed  Susans.  In  Sep 
tember  the  river-banks  and  the  brooks 
glowed  for  us  with  cardinal-flower  and  the 
blue  lobelia,  and  then,  until  the  frosts  settled 
into  winter,  there  were  the  fringed  gentians 
and  the  asters  and  the  goldenrod.  And  still 
the  half  has  not  been  told.  If  I  tried  to 
name  all  that  gay  company,  my  tale  would  be 
longer  than  Homer's  catalogue  of  the  ships. 

In  early  July  a  friend  brought  me  in  a  big 
bunch  of  sweet  peas.  I  buried  my  face  in  their 
sweetness;  then,  as  I  held  them  off,  I  sighed. 

"Oh,  dear!"  I  said. 

"What's  'oh,  dear '  ?  "  said  Jonathan,  ashe 
took  off  his  ankle-clips.  He  had  just  come  up 
from  the  station  on  his  bicycle. 

"Nothing.  Only  why  do  people  have  ma 
genta  sweet  peas  with  red  ones  and  pink  ones 
—  that  special  pink?  It's  just  the  color  of 
pink  tooth-powder." 

''You  might  throw  away  the  ones  you  don't 
like." 

"No,  I  can't  do  that.  But  why  does  any- 


52  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

body  grow  them?  If  I  had  sweet  peas,  I'd 
have  white  ones,  and  pale  lavender  ones,  and 
those  lovely  salmon-pink  ones,  and  maybe 
some  pale  yellow  ones  — " 

"Sweet  peas  have  to  be  planted  in  March," 
said  Jonathan,  as  he  trundled  his  wheel  off 
toward  the  barn. 

"Of  course,"  I  called  after  him.  "I'm  not 
going  to  plant  any.  I  was  only  saying  if." 

Perhaps  the  sweet  peas  began  it,  but  I 
really  think  the  whole  thing  began  with  the 
phlox. 

One  afternoon  in  August  I  walked  down  the 
road  through  the  woods  to  meet  Jonathan. 
As  he  came  up  to  me  and  dismounted  I  held 
out  to  him  a  spray  of  white  phlox. 

"Where  do  you  suppose  I  found  it?"  I 
asked. 

"Down  by  the  old  Talcott  place,"  he 
hazarded. 

"No.  There  is  some  there,  but  this  was 
growing  under  our  crab-apple  trees,  right 
beside  the  house." 

"Well,  now,  it  must  have  been  some  of 
Aunt  Deborah's.  I  remember  hearing  Uncle 
Ben  say  she  used  to  have  her  garden  there; 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        53 

that  must  have  been  before  he  started  the 
crab  orchard.  Why,  that  phlox  can't  be  less 
than  forty  years  old,  anyway." 

"  Dear  me ! "  I  took  back  the  delicate  spray; 
"it  does  n't  look  it." 

"No.  Don't  you  wish  you  could  look  like 
that  when  you're  forty?"  he  philosophized; 
and  added,  "Is  there  much  of  it?" 

"Five  or  six  roots,  but  there  won't  be  many 
blossoms,  it's  so  shady." 

"We  might  move  it  and  give  it  a  chance." 

"Let's!  We'll  dig  it  up  this  fall,  and  put  it 
over  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  in  that 
sunny  open  place." 

When  October  came,  we  took  Aunt  Deb 
orah's  phlox  and  transplanted  it  to  where  it 
could  get  the  sunshine  it  had  been  starving 
for  all  those  years.  I  sat  on  a  stump  and 
watched  Jonathan  digging  the  holes. 

"You  don't  suppose  Henry  will  cut  them 
down  for  weeds  when  they  come  up,  do  you?  " 
I  said. 

"Seems  probable,"  said  Jonathan.  "You 
might  stick  in  a  few  bulbs  that'll  come  up 
early  and  mark  the  spot." 

"Oh,  yes.  And  we  could  put  a  line  of  sweet 


54  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

alyssum  along  each  side,  to  last  along  after 
the  bulbs  are  over." 

"You  can  do  that  in  the  spring  if  you  want 
to.  I'll  bring  up  some  bulbs  to-morrow." 

The  winter  passed  and  the  spring  came  — 
sweet,  tormenting. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said  at  luncheon  one  day, 
"I  got  the  sweet  alyssum  seed  this  morn 
ing." 

"Sweet  alyssum?"  He  looked  blank. 
"What  do  you  want  sweet  alyssum  for?  It's 
a  foolish  flower.  I  thought  you  were  n't 
going  to  have  a  garden,  anyway." 

"I'm  not;  but  don't  you  remember  about 
the  phlox?  We  said  we'd  put  in  some  sweet 
alyssum  to  mark  it — so  it  would  n't  get  cut 
down." 

"The  bulbs  will  do  that,  and  when  they're 
gone  it  will  be  high  enough  to  show." 

"Well,  I  have  the  seed,  and  I  might  as  well 
use  it.  It  won't  do  any  harm." 

"No.  I  don't  believe  sweet  alyssum  ever 
hurt  anybody,"  said  Jonathan. 

That  evening  when  he  came  in  I  met  him 
in  the  hall.  I  had  the  florist's  catalogue  in 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        55 

my  hand.  "Jonathan,  it  says  English  daisies 
are  good  for  borders." 

"Borders !  What  do  you  want  of  borders? " 

"Why,  up  on  the  farm  —  the  phlox,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  the  phlox.  I  thought  you  had  sweet 
alyssum  for  a  border." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  I  drew  him  into 
the  study. 

"Why,  yes,  but  that  was  such  a  little  pack 
age.  I  don't  believe  there  would  be  enough. 
And  I  thought  I  could  try  the  English  daisies, 
too,  and  if  one  did  n't  do  well  perhaps  the 
other  would.  And  look  what  it  says  —  No, 
never  mind  the  newspaper  yet  —  there  is  n't 
any  news  —  just  look  at  this  about  pansies." 

"Pansies!  You  don't  want  them  for  a 
border!" 

"Why,  no,  not  exactly.  But,  you  see,  the 
phlox  won't  blossom  till  late  August,  and  it 
says  that  if  you  plant  this  kind  of  pansies  very 
early,  they  blossom  in  June,  and  then  if  you 
cover  them  they  live  over  and  blossom  again 
the  next  May.  And  pansies  are  so  lovely! 
Look  at  that  picture!  Don't  you  love  those 
French-blue  ones?" 


56  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I  like  pansies.  I  don't  know  about  the 
nationalities,"  said  Jonathan.  "Of  course,  if 
you  want  to  bother  with  them,  go  ahead." 
He  picked  up  his  paper. 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  any  bother.    They  take 
care  of  themselves.    Please,  your  pencil  — 
I'm  going  to  mark  the  colors  I  want." 

We  went  up  soon  after  to  look  at  the  farm. 
We  found  it  very  much  as  we  had  left  it, 
except  that  there  hung  about  it  that  indescrib 
able  something  we  call  spring.  We  tramped 
about  on  the  spongy  ground,  and  sniffed  the 
sweet  air,  and  looked  at  the  apple  buds,  and 
kicked  up  the  soft,  matted  maple  leaves  to  see 
the  grass  starting  underneath. 

"Oh,  Jonathan!  Our  bulbs!"  I  exclaimed. 
We  hurried  over  to  them  and  lifted  up 
the  thick  blanket  of  leaves  and  hay  we 
had  left  over  them.  "Look!  A  crocus!"  I 
said. 

"And  here's  a  snowdrop!  Let's  take  off 
these  leaves  and  give  them  a  chance." 

"Dear  me!"  I  sighed;  "is  n't  it  wonderful? 
To  think  those  hard  little  bullets  we  put  in 
last  fall  should  do  all  this!  And  here's  the 
phlox  just  starting  —  look — " 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        57 

"Oh,  you  can't  kill  phlox,"  said  Jonathan 
imperturbably. 

"All  the  better.  I  hate  not  giving  people 
credit  for  things  just  because  they  come 
natural." 

"  That  is  a  curious  sentence,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Never  mind.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
You've  understood  a  great  many  more  curi 
ous  ones  than  that.  Listen,  Jonathan.  Why 
could  n't  I  put  in  my  seeds  now?  I  brought 
them  along." 

"Why  —  yes  —  it's  pretty  early  for  any 
thing  but  peas,  but  you  can  try,  of  course. 
What  are  they?  Sweet  alyssum  and  pansy?" 

"Yes  —  and  I  did  get  a  few  sweet  peas 
too,"  I  hesitated.  "I  thought  Henry  had  n't 
much  to  do  yet,  and  perhaps  he  could  make  a 
trench  —  you  know  it  needs  a  trench." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jonathan.  I  think  he 
smiled.  "Let's  see  your  seeds." 

"They're  at  the  house.  Come  over  to  the 
south  porch,  where  it's  warm,  and  we'll  plan 
about  them." 

I  opened  the  bundle  and  laid  out  the  little 
packets  with  their  gay  pictures  indicating 
what  the  seeds  within  might  be  expected  to 


58  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

do.  "Sweet  alyssum  and  pansies,"  I  said, 
"and  here  are  the  sweet  peas." 

Jonathan  took  them  —  "'Dorothy  Eck- 
ford,  Lady  Grisel  Hamilton,  Gladys  Unwin, 
Early  Dawn,  White  Spencer.'  By  George! 
you  mean  to  keep  Henry  busy!  Here's  ten 
ounces  of  peas!" 

"They  were  so  much  cheaper  by  the  ounce," 
I  murmured. 

"And  —  hold  up!  Did  you  know  they 
gave  you  some  asters?  These  are  n't  sweet 
peas." 

"No —  I  know  — but  I  thought — you  see, 
sweet  peas  are  over  by  August,  and  asters 
go  on  all  through  October  —  don't  you  re 
member  what  lovely  ones  Christabel  had?" 

"Hm!  But  isn't  the  world  full  of  asters, 
anyway,  in  September  and  October,  without 
your  planting  any  more?"  He  grinned  a 
little.  "I  thought  that  was  your  idea  —  you 
said  Christabel  grubbed  so." 

"Why,  yes;  but  asters  are  n't  any  trouble. 
You  just  put  them  in  — " 

"And  weed  them." 

"Yes  —  and  weed  them;  but  I  wouldn't 
mind  that." 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS       59 

"But  here's  some  larkspur!" 

"Yes,  but  I  did  n't  buy  that,"  I  explained, 
hurriedly.  "Christabel  sent  me  that.  She 
thought  I  might  like  some  from  her  garden  — 
she  has  such  lovely  larkspurs,  don't  you  re 
member?  And  I  just  brought  them  along." 

"Yes.  So  I  see.  Is  that  all  you've  just 
brought  along?" 

"Yes  —  except  the  cosmos.  The  florist 
advised  that,  and  I  thought  there  might  be  a 
place  for  it  over  by  the  fence.  And  of  course 
we  need  n't  use  it  if  we  don't  want  to.  I  can 
give  it  to  Mrs.  Stone." 

"But  here's  some  nasturtiums!'* 

"Oh  — I  forgot  about  them  — but  I 
did  n't  buy  them  either.  They  came  from 
the  Department  of  Agriculture  or  something. 
There  were  somdtcarrots  and  parsnips,  and 
things  like  that,  too,  all  in  a  big  brown  en 
velope.  I  knew  you  had  all  the  other  things 
you  wanted,  so  I  just  brought  these.  But  of 
course  I  don't  have  to  plant  them,  either." 

"But  you  don't  like  nasturtiums.  You've 
always  said  they  made  you  think  of  railway 
stations  and  soldiers'  homes  - 

"Well,  I  did  use  to  feel  that  way,  —  an- 


60  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

chors  and  crosses  and  rock-work  on  big 
shaved  lawns,  —  and,  besides,  nasturtiums 
always  seemed  to  be  the  sort  of  flowers  that 
people  picked  with  short  stems,  and  tied  up 
in  a  wad,  and  stuck  in  a  blue-glass  goblet, 
and  set  on  a  table  with  a  red  cover  on  it.  I 
did  have  horrible  associations  with  nastur 
tiums." 

"Then  why  in  thunder  do  you  plant 
them?" 

"I  only  thought  —  if  there  was  a  drought 
this  summer  —  you  know  they  don't  mind 
drought;  Millie  Sutphen  told  me  that.  And 
she  had  a  way  of  cutting  them  with  long 
stems,  so  they  trailed,  and  they  were  really 
lovely.  And  then  —  there  the  package  was  — 
I  thought  it  would  n't  do  any  harm  to  take 
it." 

"Oh,  you  don't  have  to  apologize,"  said 
Jonathan.  "I  did  n't  understand  your  plan, 
that  was  all.  I  '11  go  and  see  Henry  about  the 
trench." 

I  sat  on  the  sunny  porch  and  the  March 
wind  swept  by  the  house  on  each  side  of  me. 
I  gloated  over  my  seed  packets.  Would  they 
come  up?  Of  course  other  people's  seeds  came 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        61 

up,  but  would  mine?  It  was  very  exciting.  I 
pinched  open  a  corner  of  the  Lady  Grisel 
Hamiltons  and  poured  some  of  the  pretty, 
smooth,  fawn-colored  balls  into  my  hand. 
Then  I  opened  the  cosmos  —  what  funny 
long  thin  ones!  How  long  should  I  have  to 
wait  till  they  began  to  come  up?  I  read  the 
directions  —  "Plant  when  all  danger  from 
frost  is  past."  Oh,  dear!  that  meant  May  — 
another  whole  month!  Well,  I  would  get  in 
my  sweet  peas  and  risk  my  pansies  and  alys- 
sum,  anyhow.  And  I  jumped  off  the  porch 
and  went  back  to  the  phlox  to  plan  out  my 
campaign. 

By  early  May  we  were  settled  on  the  farm 
once  more.  My  pansies  and  alyssum  were 
up  —  at  least  I  believed  they  were  up,  but  I 
spent  many  minutes  of  each  day  kneeling  by 
them  and  studying  the  physiognomy  of  their 
cotyledons.  I  led  Jonathan  out  to  them  one 
Sunday  morning,  and  he  regarded  them  with 
indulgence  if  not  with  enthusiasm.  As  he 
stooped  to  throw  out  a  bunch  of  pebbles  in 
one  of  the  new  beds  I  stopped  him.  "Oh, 
don't!  Those  are  my  Mizpah  stones." 


62  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Your  what!" 

"Why,  just  some  little  stones  to  mark  a 
place.  Some  of  the  nasturtiums  are  there.  I 
did  n't  know  whether  they  were  going  to  do 
anything  —  they  looked  so  like  chips  —  and 
then,  being  sent  free  that  way  —  but  they 


are.'3 


"How  do  you  know?  They  are  n't  up." 

"No,  but  they  will  be  soon.  I  —  why,  I 
just  thought  I'd  see  what  they  were  doing." 

"So  you  dug  them  up?"  he  probed. 

"Not  them  —  just  it  —  just  one.  That's 
why  I  marked  the  place.  I  did  n't  want  to 
keep  disturbing  different  ones.  Now  what  are 
you  laughing  at?  Would  n't  you  have  wanted 
to  know?  And  you  would  n't  want  to  dig  up 
different  ones  all  the  time !  I  don't  know  much 
about  gardening,  but  — " 

"I'm  not  laughing,"  said  Jonathan.  "Of 
course  I  should  have  wanted  to  know.  And 
it  is  certainly  better  not  to  dig  up  different 
ones.  There!  Have  I  put  your  Mizpah  back 
right?" 

A  few  days  later  Jonathan  wheeled  into 
the  yard  and  over  near  where  I  was  kneeling 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS       63 

by  the  phlox.  "I  saw  a  lady-slipper  bud  al 
most  out  to-day,"  he  said. 

"Did  you?  Look  at  my  sweet  alyssum. 
It's  grown  an  inch  since  yesterday,"  I  said. 
"Don't  you  think  I  could  plant  my  cosmos 
and  asters  now?" 

"Thunder!"  said  Jonathan;  "don't  you 
care  more  about  the  pink  lady-slipper  than 
about  your  blooming  little  sweet  alyssum?  " 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  I  love  lady-slippers. 
You  know  I  do,"  I  protested;  "only  —  you 
see  —  I  can't  explain  exactly  —  but  —  it 
seems  to  make  a  difference  when  you  plant  a 
thing  yourself.  And,  oh,  Jonathan!  Won't 
you  please  come  here  and  tell  me  if  these  are 
young  pansies  or  only  plantain?  I'm  so 
afraid  of  pulling  up  the  wrong  thing.  I  do 
wish  somebody  would  make  a  book  with  pict 
ures  of  all  the  cotyledons  of  all  the  different 
plants.  It's  so  confusing.  Millie  had  an  awful 
time  telling  marigold  from  ragweed  last  sum 
mer.  She  had  to  break  off  a  tip  of  each  leaf 
and  taste  it.  Why  do  you  just  stand  there 
looking  like  that?  Please  come  and  help." 

But  Jonathan  did  not  move.  He  stood, 
leaning  on  his  wheel,  regarding  me  with  open 


64  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

amusement,  and  possibly  a  shade  of  disap 
proval. 

"Lord!"  he  finally  remarked;  "you've  got 
it!" 

"Got  what?"  I  said,  though  I  knew. 

"The  garden  germ." 


Yes.  There  was  no  denying  it.  I  had  it.  I 
have  it  still,  and  there  is  very  little  chance  of 
iny  shaking  it  off.  It  is  a  disease  that  grows 
with  what  it  feeds  on.  Now  and  then,  indeed, 
I  make  a  feeble  fight  against  its  inroads:  I 
will  not  have  another  flower-bed,  I  will  not 
have  any  more  annuals,  I  will  have  only 
things  that  live  on  from  year  to  year  and  take 
care  of  themselves.  But  — 

"Alas,  alas,  repentance  oft  before 
I  swore  —  but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore? 
And  then  —  and  then  —  came  spring  — " 

and  the  florist's  catalogues!  And  is  any  one 
who  has  once  given  way  to  them  proof  against 
the  seductions  of  those  catalogues?  Those 
asters!  Those  larkspurs!  Those  foxgloves 
and  poppies  and  Canterbury  bells!  All  that 
ravishing  company,  mine  at  the  price  of  a  few 
cents  and  a  little  grubbing.  Mine !  There  is 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        65 

the  secret  of  it.  Out  in  the  great  and  wonder 
ful  world  beyond  my  garden,  nature  works 
her  miracles  constantly.  She  lays  her  riches 
at  my  feet;  they  are  mine  for  the  gathering. 
But  to  work  these  miracles  myself,  —  to  have 
my  own  little  hoard  that  looks  to  me  for  tend 
ing,  for  very  life,  —  that  is  a  joy  by  itself. 
My  little  garden  bed  gives  me  something  that 
all  the  luxuriance  of  woods  and  fields  can 
never  give — not  better,  not  so  good,  perhaps, 
but  different.  Once  having  known  the  thrill 
of  watching  the  first  tiny  shoot  from  a  seed 
that  I  have  planted  myself,  once  having  fol 
lowed  it  to  leaf  and  flower  and  seed  again,  I 
can  never  give  it  up. 

My  garden  is  not  very  big  nor  very  beauti 
ful.  Perhaps  the  stretch  of  rocks  and  grass 
and  weeds  beside  the  house  —  an  expanse 
which  not  even  the  wildest  flight  of  the  imagin 
ation  could  call  a  lawn  —  perhaps  this  might 
be  more  pleasing  if  the  garden  were  not  there, 
but  it  is  there,  and  there  it  will  stay.  It 
means  much  grubbing.  Just  putting  in  seeds 
and  then  weeding  is,  I  find,  no  mere  affair  of 
rhetoric.  Moreover,  I  am  introduced  through 
my  garden  to  an  entirely  new  set  of  troubles: 


66  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

beetles  and  cutworms  and  moles  and  hens 
and  a  host  of  marauding  creatures  above 
ground  and  below,  whose  number  and  energy 
amaze  me.  And  each  summer  seems  to  add 
to  their  variety  and  resourcefulness.  Clearly, 
the  pleasures  of  a  garden  are  not  commensur 
ate  with  its  pains.  And  yet  — 

But  there  is  one  kind  of  joy  which  it  gives 
me  at  which  even  the  Scoffer  —  to  wit,  Jona 
than  —  does  not  scoff.  It  began  with  Aunt 
Deborah's  phlox.  Then  came  Christabel's 
larkspur.  The  next  summer  Mrs.  Stone  sent 
me  over  some  of  her  hardy  little  fall  asters  — 
"artemishy,"  she  called  them.  And  Anne 
Stafford  sent  on  some  hollyhock  seeds  culled 
from  Emerson's  garden.  And  Great-Aunt 
Sarah  was  dividing  her  peony  roots,  and  said 
I  might  take  one.  And  Cousin  Patty  asked 
me  if  I  would  n't  like  some  of  her  mother's 
old-fashioned  pinks.  And  so  it  goes. 

And  so  it  will  go,  I  hope,  to  the  end  of  the 
long  day.  Each  year  my  garden  has  in  it 
more  of  my  friends,  and  as  I  look  at  it  I 
can  adopt  poor  Ophelia's  pretty  speech  in  a 
new  meaning,  and  say,  "Larkspur — that's 
for  remembrance;  hollyhocks — that's  for 


LARKSPURS  AND  HOLLYHOCKS        67 

thoughts."  Remembrance  of  all  those  dear 
other  gardens  which  I  have  come  to  know, 
and  in  whose  beauties  I  am  coming  to  have  a 
share;  thoughts  of  all  those  dear  other  gar 
deners  upon  whom,  as  upon  me,  the  miracle 
of  the  seed  has  laid  a  spell  from  which  they 
can  never  escape. 


VI 

The  Farm  Sunday 

I  HAVE  never  been  able  to  discover  why  it  is 
that  things  always  happen  Sunday  morning. 
We  mean  to  get  to  church.  We  speak  of  it 
almost  every  Sunday,  unless  there  is  a  steady 
downpour  that  puts  it  quite  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  But,  somehow,  between  nine  and  ten 
o'clock  on  a  Sunday  morning  seems  to  be  the 
farm's  busiest  time.  If  there  are  new  broods 
of  chickens,  they  appear  then;  if  there  is  a 
young  calf  coming,  it  is  his  birthday;  if  the 
gray  cat  —  an  uninvited  resident  of  the  barn 
—  must  go  forth  on  marauding  expeditions, 
he  chooses  this  day  for  his  evil  work,  and  the 
air  is  rent  with  shrieks  of  robins,  or  of  cat 
birds,  or  of  phoebes,  and  there  is  a  wrecked 
nest,  and  scattered  young  ones,  half-fledged, 
that  have  to  be  gathered  into  a  basket  and 
hung  up  in  the  tree  again  by  our  united  ef 
forts.  And  always  there  is  the  same  conversa 
tion: 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  69 

"Well,  what  about  church?" 

"Church!  It's  half-past  ten  now." 

"We  can't  do  it.  Too  bad!" 

"Now,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  cat!"  — 
or  that  hen  —  or  that  calf! 

There  are  many  Sunday  morning  stories 
that  might  be  told,  but  one  must  be  told. 

It  was  a  hot,  still  Sunday  in  July.  The 
hens  sought  the  shade  early,  and  stood  about 
with  their  beaks  half  open  and  a  distant  look 
in  their  eyes,  as  if  they  saw  you  but  chose  to 
look  just  beyond  you.  It  always  irritates  me 
to  see  the  hens  do  that.  It  makes  me  feel 
hotter.  Such  a  day  it  was.  But  things  on 
the  farm  seemed  propitious,  and  we  said  at 
breakfast  that  we  would  go. 

"I've  just  got  to  take  that  two-year-old 
Devon  down  to  the  lower  pasture,"  said 
Jonathan,  "and  then  I'll  harness.  We  ought 
to  start  early,  because  it 's  too  hot  to  drive  Kit 
fast."  ' 

"Do  you  think  you'd  better  take  the  cow 
down  this  morning?"  I  said,  doubtfully. 
"Could  n't  you  wait  until  we  come  back?" 

"No;  that  upper  pasture  is  getting  burned 
out,  and  she  ought  to  get  into  some  good 


70  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

grass  this  morning.  I  meant  to  take  her  down 
last  night." 

"Well,  do  hurry."  I  still  felt  dubious. 

"Oh,  it's  only  five  minutes'  walk  down  the 
road,"  said  Jonathan  easily.  "I'm  all  ready 
for  church,  except  for  these  shoes.  I'll  have 
the  carriage  at  the  door  before  you  're 
dressed." 

I  said  no  more,  but  went  upstairs,  while 
Jonathan  started  for  the  barnyard.  A  few 
minutes  later  I  heard  from  that  direction 
the  sounds  of  exhortation  such  as  are  usually 
employed  towards  "critters."  They  seemed 
to  be  coming  nearer.  I  glanced  out  of  a 
front  window,  and  saw  Jonathan  and  his  cow 
coming  up  the  road  past  the  house. 

"Where  are  you  taking  her?"  I  called.  "I 
thought  you  meant  to  go  the  other  way." 

"So  I  did,"  he  shouted,  in  some  irritation. 
"But  she  swung  up  to  the  right  as  she  went 
out  of  the  gate,  and  I  could  n't  head  her  off 
in  time.  Oh,  there's  Bill  Russell.  Head  her 
round,  will  you,  Bill?  There,  now  we're  all 
right." 

"I'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes,"  he  called  up 
at  my  window  as  he  repassed. 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  71 

I  watched  them  go  back  up  the  road.  At 
the  big  farm  gate  the  cow  made  a  break  for  the 
barnyard  again,  but  the  two  men  managed  to 
turn  her.  Just  beyond,  at  the  fork  in  the  road, 
I  saw  Bill  turn  down  towards  the  cider-mill, 
while  Jonathan  kept  on  with  his  convoy  over 
the  hill.  I  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  not 
yet  nine.  There  was  plenty  of  time,  of  course. 

At  half-past  nine  I  went  downstairs  again, 
and  wandered  out  toward  the  big  gate.  It 
seemed  to  me  time  for  Jonathan  to  be  back. 
In  the  Sunday  hush  I  thought  I  heard  sounds 
of  distant  "hi-ing."  They  grew  louder;  yes, 
surely,  there  was  the  cow,  just  appearing  over 
the  hill  and  trotting  briskly  along  the  road 
towards  home.  And  there  was  Jonathan,  also 
trotting  briskly.  He  looked  red  and  warm. 
I  stepped  out  into  the  road  to  keep  the  cow 
from  going  past,  but  there  was  no  need.  She 
swung  cheerfully  in  at  the  big  gate,  and  fell  to 
cropping  the  long  grass  just  inside  the  fence. 

Jonathan  slowed  down  beside  me,  and, 
pulling  out  his  handkerchief,  began  flapping 
the  dust  off  his  trousers  while  he  explained :  — 

''You  see,  I  got  her  down  there  all  right, 
but  I  had  to  let  down  the  bars,  and  while  I 


72  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

was  doing  that  she  went  along  the  road  a  bit, 
and  when  she  saw  me  coming  she  just  kicked 
up  her  heels  and  galloped." 

"How  did  you  stop  her?"  I  asked. 

"I  didn't.  The  Maxwells  were  coming 
along  with  their  team,  and  they  headed  her 
back  for  me.  Then  they  went  on.  Only  by 
that  time,  you  see,  she  was  a  bit  excited,  and 
when  we  came  along  back  to  those  bars  she 
shot  right  past  them,  and  never  stopped  till 
she  got  here." 

I  looked  at  her  grazing  quietly  inside  the 
fence.  "She  does  n't  look  as  though  she  had 
done  so  much,"  —  and  then,  as  I  glanced  at 
Jonathan,  I  could  not  forbear  saying,  —  "but 
you  do." 

"I  suppose  I  do."  He  gave  his  trousers  a 
last  flick,  and,  putting  up  his  handkerchief, 
shifted  his  stick  to  his  right  hand. 

"Well,  put  her  back  in  the  inner  yard,"  I 
said,  "and  this  afternoon  I'll  help  you." 

"Put  her  back!"  said  Jonathan.  "Not 
much !  You  don't  think  I  'd  let  a  cow  beat  me 
that  way!" 

"But  Jonathan,  it's  half-past  nine!" 

"What  of  it?  I'll  just  work  her  slowly  — 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  73 

she's  quiet  now,  you  see,  and  the  bars  are 
open.  There  won't  be  any  trouble." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  would  n't,"  I  said.  But, 
seeing  he  was  firm,  "Well,  if  you  will  go,  I'll 
harness." 

Jonathan  looked  at  me  ruefully.  "That's 
too  bad  —  you're  all  dressed."  He  wavered, 
but  I  would  take  no  concessions  based  on 
feminine  equipment.  "Oh,  that  does  n't  mat 
ter.  I'll  get  my  big  apron.  First  you  start 
her  out,  and  I  'II  keep  her  from  going  towards 
the  house  or  down  to  the  mill." 

Jonathan  sidled  cautiously  through  the  gate 
and  around  the  grazing  cow.  Then,  with  a 
gentle  and  ingratiating  "Hi  there,  Bossie!" 
he  managed  to  turn  her,  still  grazing,  towards 
the  road.  While  the  grass  held  out  she  drifted 
along  easily  enough,  but  when  she  reached  the 
dirt  of  the  roadway  she  raised  her  head,  flicked 
her  tail,  and  gave  a  little  hop  with  her  hind 
quarters  that  seemed  to  me  indicative  of  an 
unquiet  spirit.  But  I  stood  firm  and  Jonathan 
was  gently  urgent,  and  we  managed  to  start 
her  on  the  right  road  once  more.  She  was  not, 
however,  going  as  slowly  as  Jonathan  had 
planned,  and  it  was  with  some  misgivings  that 


74  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

I  donned  my  apron  and  went  in  to  harness 
Kit.  I  led  her  around  to  the  carriage-house 
and  put  her  into  the  buggy,  and  still  he  had 
not  returned.  I  got  out  the  lap  robe,  shook  it, 
and  folded  it  neatly  on  the  back  of  the  seat. 
No  Jonathan!  There  was  nothing  more  for 
me  to  do,  so  I  took  off  my  apron  and  climbed 
into  the  carriage  to  wait.  The  carriage-house 
was  as  cool  a  place  as  one  could  have  found. 
Both  its  big  sliding  doors  were  pushed  back, 
one  opening  out  toward  the  front  gate,  the 
other,  opposite,  opening  into  the  inner  barn 
yard.  I  sat  and  looked  out  over  the  rolling, 
sunny  country  and  felt  the  breeze,  warm,  but 
fresh  and  sweet,  and  listened  to  the  barn 
swallows  in  the  barnyard  behind  me,  and 
wondered,  as  I  have  wondered  a  thousand 
times,  why  in  New  England  the  outbuildings 
always  have  so  much  better  views  than  the 
house. 

Ten  o'clock!  Where  was  Jonathan?  The 
Morehouses  drove  past,  then  the  Elkinses; 
they  went  to  the  Baptist.  Ten  minutes  past! 
There  went  the  O'Neils  —  they  belonged  to 
our  church  —  and  the  Scrantons,  and  Billy 
Howard  and  his  sister,  driving  fast  as  usual; 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  75 

they  were  always  late.  Quarter-past  ten! 
Well,  we  might  as  well  give  up  church.  I 
thought  of  unharnessing,  but  I  was  very  com 
fortable  where  I  was,  and  Kit  seemed  con 
tented  as  she  stood  looking  out  of  the  door. 
Hark!  What  was  that?  It  sounded  like  the 
beat  of  hoofs  in  the  lane  —  the  cattle  would 
n't  come  up  at  this  hour!  I  stood  up  to  see 
past  the  inner  barnyard  and  off  down  the 
lane.  "What  on  earth!"  I  said  to  myself. 
For  —  yes  —  surely  —  that  was  the  two- 
year-old  Devon  coming  leisurely  up  the  lane 
towards  the  yard.  In  a  few  moments  Jona 
than's  head  appeared,  then  his  shoulders,  then 
his  entire  dusty,  discouraged  self.  Yes,  some 
how  or  other,  they  must  have  made  the  round 
trip.  As  this  dawned  upon  me,  I  smiled,  then 
I  laughed,  then  I  sat  down  and  laughed  again 
till  I  was  weak  and  tearful.  It  was  cruel,  and 
by  the  time  Jonathan  had  reached  the  car 
riage-house  and  sunk  down  on  its  threshold  I 
had  recovered  enough  to  be  sorry  for  him. 
But  I  was  unfortunate  in  my  first  remark. 
"Why,  Jonathan,"  I  gasped,  "what  have  you 
been  doing  with  that  cow?" 

Jonathan  mopped  his  forehead.    "Having 


76  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

iced  tea  under  the  trees.  Could  n't  you  see  that 
to  look  at  me?"  he  replied,  almost  savagely. 

"  You  poor  thing !  I  '11  make  you  some  when 
we  go  in.  But  do  tell  me,  how  did  you  ever  get 
around  here  again  from  the  back  of  the  farm 
that  way?" 

"Easy  enough,"  said  Jonathan.  "I  drove 
her  along  to  the  pasture  in  great  shape,  only 
we  were  going  a  little  fast.  She  tried  to  dodge 
the  bars,  but  I  turned  her  in  through  them  all 
right.  But  some  idiot  had  left  the  bars  down 
at  the  other  end  of  the  pasture  —  between 
that  and  the  back  lots,  you  know  —  and  that 
blamed  cow  went  for  that  opening,  just  as 
straight  - 

I  began  to  shake  again.  "Oh,  that  brought 
you  out  by  the  huckleberry  knoll,  and  the 
ledges!  Why,  she  could  go  anywhere!" 

"She  could,  and  she  did,"  said  Jonathan 
grimly.  He  leaned  back  against  the  doorpost, 
immersed  in  bitter  reminiscence.  "She  — 
certainly  —  did.  I  chased  her  up  the  ledges 
and  through  the  sumachs  and  down  through 
the  birches  and  across  the  swamp.  Oh,  we 
did  the  farm,  the  whole  blamed  farm.  What 
time  is  it?" 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  77 

"Half-past  ten,"  I  said  gently;  and  added, 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her  now?" 
His  jaw  set  in  a  fashion  I  knew. 
"I'm  going  to  put  her  in  that  lower  past 


ure." 


I  saw  it  was  useless  to  protest.  Church  was 
a  vanished  dream,  but  I  began  to  fear  that 
Sunday  dinner  was  also  doomed.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  help?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Jonathan.  "I'll  put  her  in 
the  barn  till  I  can  get  a  rope,  and  then  I'll 
lead  her." 

However,  I  did  help  get  her  into  the  barn. 
Then  while  he  went  for  his  rope  I  unhar 
nessed.  When  he  came  back,  he  had  changed 
into  a  flannel  shirt  and  working  trousers.  He 
entered  the  barn  and  in  a  few  moments 
emerged,  pulling  hard  on  the  rope.  Nothing 
happened. 

"Go  around  the  other  way,"  he  called, 
"and  take  a  stick,  and  poke  that  cow  till  she 
starts." 

I  went  in  at  the  back  door,  slid  between  the 
stanchions  into  the  cow  stall,  and  gingerly 
poked  at  the  animal's  hind  quarters  and  said, 
"Hi!"  until  at  last,  with  a  hunching  of  hips 


78  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

and  tossing  of  head,  she  bounded  out  into  the 
sunny  barnyard. 

"She'll  be  all  right  now,"  said  Jonathan. 

I  watched  them  doubtfully,  but  they  got 
through  the  bars  and  as  far  as  the  road  with 
out  incident.  At  the  road  she  suddenly 
balked.  She  twisted  her  horns  and  set  her 
front  legs.  I  hurried  down  from  my  post  of 
observation  in  the  carriage-house  door,  and 
said  "Hi! "again. 

"That's  no  good,"  panted  Jonathan;  "get 
your  stick  again.  Now,  when  I  pull,  you  hit 
her  behind,  and  she'll  come.  I  guess  she 
has  n't  been  taught  to  lead  yet." 

"If  she  has,  she  has  apparently  forgotten," 
I  replied.  "Now,  then,  you  pull!" 

The  creature  moved  on  grudgingly,  with 
curious  and  unlovely  sidewise  lunges  and 
much  brandishing  of  horns,  where  the  rope 
was  tied. 

"Hit  her  again, now!"  said  Jonathan.  "Oh, 
hit  her !  Hit  her  harder !  She  does  n't  feel 
that.  Hit  her  I  There!  Now,  she's  coming." 

Truly,  she  did  come.  But  I  am  ashamed  to 
think  how  I  used  that  stick.  As  we  progressed 
up  the  road,  over  the  hill,  and  down  to  the 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  79 

lower  pasture,  there  kept  repeating  themselves 
over  and  over  in  my  head  the  lines :  — 

"The  sergeant  pushed  and  the  corporal  pulled, 
And  the  three  they  wagged  along." 

But  I  did  not  quote  these  to  Jonathan  until 
afterwards.  There  was  something  else,  too, 
that  I  did  not  quote  until  afterwards.  This 
was  the  remark  of  a  sailor  uncle  of  mine:  "A 
man  never  tackled  a  job  yet  that  he  did  n't 
have  to  have  a  woman  to  hold  on  to  the 
slack." 

So  much  for  Sunday  business.  But  it 
should  not  for  a  moment  be  supposed  that 
Sunday  is  full  of  these  incidents.  It  is  only 
for  a  little  while  in  the  morning.  After  the 
church  hour,  about  eleven  o'clock  or  earlier, 
the  farm  settles  down.  The  "critters"  are 
all  attended  to,  the  chicks  are  stowed,  the 
cat  has  disappeared,  the  hens  have  finished 
all  their  important  business  and  are  lying 
on  their  sides  in  their  favorite  dirt -holes  en 
joying  their  dust-baths,  so  still,  yet  so  dis 
heveled  that  I  used  to  think  they  were  dead, 
and  poke  them  to  see  —  with  what  cacklings 
and  flutterings  resulting  may  be  imagined. 


80  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

I  have  often  wished  for  the  hen's  ability  to 
express  indignation. 

Yes,  the  farm  is  at  peace,  and  as  we  sit 
under  the  big  maples  it  seems  to  be  reproach 
ing  us  -  "See  how  quiet  everything  is!  And 
you  could  n't  even  manage  church!" 

Other  people  seem  to  manage  it  very  com 
fortably  and  quite  regularly.  On  Sunday 
morning  our  quiet  little  road,  unfrequented 
even  by  the  ubiquitous  automobile,  is  gay 
with  church-goers.  "Gay"  may  seem  the 
wrong  word,  but  it  is  quite  the  right  one.  In 
the  city  church-going  is  rather  a  sober  affair. 
People  either  walk  or  take  cars.  They  wear  a 
certain  sort  of  clothes,  known  as  "church 
clothes,"  which  represent  a  sort  of  hedging 
compromise  between  their  morning  and  their 
afternoon  wear.  They  approach  the  church 
in  decorous  silence;  as  they  emerge  they  ex 
change  subdued  greetings,  walk  a  block  or 
two  in  little  companies,  then  scatter  to  their 
homes  and  their  Sunday  dinners. 

But  in  the  country  everybody  but  the  vil 
lage  people  drives,  and  the  roads  are  full  of 
teams,  —  buggies,  surreys,  phaetons,  —  the 
carriages  newly  washed,  the  horses  freshly 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  81 

groomed,  the  occupants  scrupulously  dressed 
in  the  prettiest  things  they  own  —  their 
"  Sunday  -go-to-meeting "  ones,  which  means 
something  quite  different  from  "church 
clothes."  As  one  nears  the  village  there  is 
some  friendly  rivalry  between  horses,  there  is 
the  pleasure  of  "catching  up"  with  neighbors' 
teams,  or  of  being  caught  up  with,  and  at  the 
church  door  there  is  the  business  of  alighting 
and  hitching  the  horses,  and  then,  if  it  is  early, 
waiting  about  outside  for  the  "last  bell" 
before  going  in. 

Even  in  the  church  itself  there  is  more  free 
dom  and  variety  than  in  our  city  tabernacles. 
In  these  there  are  always  the  same  memorial 
windows  to  look  at,  —  except  perhaps  once 
in  ten  years  when  somebody  dies  and  a  new 
one  goes  in,  —  but  in  the  country  stained 
glass  is  more  rare.  In  many  it  has  not  even 
gained  place  at  all,  and  the  panes  of  clear 
glass  let  in  a  glory  of  blueness  and  whiteness 
and  greenness  to  rejoice  the  heart  of  the  wor 
shiper.  In  others,  more  ambitious,  alas !  there 
is  ground  glass  with  tinted  borders;  but  this  is 
not  very  disturbing,  especially  when  the 
sashes  are  set  open  aslant,  and  the  ivy  and 


82  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Virginia  creeper  cluster  just  outside,  in  bright 
greens  and  dark,  or  cast  their  shifting  shadows 
on  the  glass,  a  dainty  tracery  of  gray  on  silver. 

And  at  the  altar  there  are  flowers  —  not 
florist  flowers,  contracted  for  by  the  year,  but 
neighborhood  flowers.  There  are  Mrs.  Cum- 
mings's  peonies — she  always  has  such  beau 
ties;  and  Mrs.  Hiram  Brown's  roses  —  no 
body  else  has  any  of  just  that  shade  of  yellow; 
and  Mary  Lord's  foxgloves  and  larkspur — 
what  a  wonder  of  yellow  and  white  and  blue ! 
Each  in  its  season,  the  flowers  are  full  of  per 
sonal  significance.  The  choir,  too,  is  made  up 
of  our  friends.  There  is  Hiram  Brown,  and 
Jennie  Sewall,  and  young  Mrs.  Harris,  back 
for  three  weeks  to  visit  her  mother,  and  little 
Sally  Winter,  a  shy  new  recruit,  very  pink 
over  her  promotion.  The  singing  is  perhaps 
not  as  finished  as  that  of  a  paid  quartette, 
but  it  is  full  of  life  and  sweetness,  and  it  makes 
a  direct  human  appeal  that  the  other  often 
misses. 

After  the  service  people  go  out  slowly, 
waiting  for  this  friend  and  that,  and  in  the 
vestibule  and  on  the  steps  and  in  the  church 
yard  they  gather  in  groups.  The  men  saunter 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  83 

off  to  the  sheds  to  get  the  horses,  and  the 
women  chat  while  they  wait.  Then  the 
teams  come  up,  as  many  as  the  roadway  will 
hold,  and  there  is  the  bustle  of  departure, 
the  taking  of  seats,  the  harsh  grinding  of 
wheels  against  the  wagon  body  as  the  driver 
"cramps"  to  turn  round,  then  good-byes,  and 
one  after  another  the  teams  start  off,  out  into 
the  open  country  for  another  week  of  quiet, 
busy  farm  life. 

Yes,  church  is  distinctively  a  social  affair, 
and  very  delightful,  and  when  our  cows  and 
hens  and  calves  and  other  "critters"  do  not 
prevent,  we  are  glad  to  have  our  part  in  it  all. 
When  they  do,  we  yet  feel  that  we  have  a  share 
in  it  simply  through  seeing  "the  folks"  go  by. 
It  is  a  distinct  pleasure  to  see  our  neighbors 
trundling  along  towards  the  village.  And 
then,  if  luck  has  been  against  us  and  we  can 
not  join  them,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  lie  in  the 
grass  and  listen  to  the  quiet.  After  the  last 
church-goers  have  passed,  the  road  is  deserted 
for  two  hours,  until  they  begin  to  return.  The 
neighboring  farms  are  quiet,  the  "folks"  are 
away,  or,  if  some  of  the  men  are  at  home,  they 
are  sitting  on  their  doorsteps  smoking. 


84  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

If  there  is  no  wind,  or  if  it  is  in  the  right 
quarter,  we  can  hear  the  church  bells,  faintly 
now,  and  now  very  clear;  there  is  the  First 
Church  bell,  and  the  Baptist;  there  is  St. 
John's,  on  a  higher  note,  and  Trinity,  a  little 
lower.  After  a  time  even  the  bells  cease,  and 
there  is  no  sound  but  the  wind  in  the  big 
maples  and  the  bees  as  they  drone  among  the 
flower  heads. 

Sunday,  at  least  Sunday  on  a  Connecticut 
farm,  has  a  distinct  quality  of  its  own.  I  can 
hardly  say  what  it  means  to  me  —  no  one,  I 
suppose,  could  say  all  that  it  means.  To  call 
it  a  day  of  rest  does  not  individualize  it 
enough.  It  has  to  be  described  not  so  much  in 
terms  of  rest  as  of  balance  and  height.  I 
think  of  the  week  as  a  long,  sweeping  curve, 
like  the  curve  of  a  swift,  deep  wave  at  sea, 
and  Sunday  is  the  crest,  the  moment  of  poise, 
before  one  is  drawn  down  into  the  next  great 
concave,  then  up  again,  to  pause  and  look 
off,  and  it  is  Sunday  once  more. 

The  weather  does  not  matter.  If  it  rains, 
you  get  one  kind  of  pause  and  outlook  —  the 
intimate,  indoor  kind.  If  the  sun  shines,  you 
get  another  kind  —  wide  and  bright.  And 


THE  FARM  SUNDAY  85 

what  you  do  does  not  matter  so  long  as  it  is 
different  from  the  week,  and  so  long  as  it  ex 
presses  and  develops  that  peculiar  Sunday 
quality  of  balance  and  height.  I  can  imagine 
nothing  drearier  than  seven  days  all  alike, 
and  seven  more,  and  seven  more!  Sundays 
are  the  big  beads  on  the  chain.  They  need  not 
be  all  of  the  same  color,  but  there  must  be  the 
big  beads  to  satisfy  the  eye  and  the  finger-tip. 

And  a  New  England  Sunday  always  is 
different.  Whatever  changes  may  have  come 
or  may  be  coming  elsewhere,  in  New  England 
Sunday  has  its  own  atmosphere.  Over  the 
fields  and  woods  and  rocks  there  is  a  sense  of 
poise  between  reminiscence  and  expectancy. 
The  stir  of  the  morning  church-going  bright 
ens  but  does  not  mar  this.  It  adds  the  human 
note  —  rather  not  a  note,  but  a  quiet  chord  of 
many  tones.  And  after  it  comes  a  hush.  The 
early  afternoon  of  a  New  England  Sunday  is 
the  most  absolutely  quiet  thing  imaginable. 
It  is  the  precise  middle  of  the  wave  crest,  the 
moment  when  motion  ceases. 

From  that  point  time  begins  to  stir  again. 
Life  resumes.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of 
desultory  intercourse  between  farm  and  farm. 


86  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

If  people  are  engaged,  or  mean  to  be,  they 
drive  out  together;  if  they  are  married,  they 
go  home  to  "his  folks  "or  "her  folks."  Friends 
walk  together,  farmers  saunter  along  the  road 
or  back  on  the  farms  to  "take  a  look"  at 
things.  Consciously  or  not,  and  usually  not, 
there  is  a  kind  of  synthesis  taking  place,  a 
gathering  together  of  the  scattered  threads 
of  many  interests,  a  vague  sense  of  the  whole 
ness  of  life. 

At  five  o'clock  the  cows  turn  towards  home, 
and  graze  their  leisurely  way  along  the  barn 
yard  lanes.  And  with  the  cows  come  duties, — 
chore-time,  —  then  the  simple,  cold  supper, 
then  the  short,  quiet  evening,  and  off  we 
swing  into  the  night  that  sweeps  us  away 
from  the  crest  down  into  the  long,  blind  hol 
low  of  the  week. 


VII 

The  Grooming  of  the  Farm 

THERE  is  a  story  about  an  artist  who  espied 
a  picturesque  old  man  and  wished  to  paint 
him.  At  the  time  appointed  the  model  ar 
rived  —  new-shaven,  new-washed,  freshly 
attired,  with  all  the  delicious  and  incommun 
icable  flavor  of  the  years  irretrievably  lost! 
Doubtless  there  are  many  such  stories;  doubt 
less  the  thing  has  happened  many,  many  times. 
And  I  am  sorrier  for  the  artist  now  than  I 
used  to  be,  because  it  is  happening  to  me. 

Only  it  is  not  an  old  man  —  it  is  the  farm, 
the  blessed  old  farm,  unkempt,  unshorn,  out 
at  the  elbows.  In  spite  of  itself,  in  spite  of  me, 
in  spite  of  everybody,  the  farm  is  being 
groomed. 

It  is  nobody's  fault,  of  course.  Like  most 
hopelessly  disastrous  things,  it  has  all  been 
done  with  the  best  possible  intentions,  per 
haps  it  has  even  been  necessary,  but  it  is  none 
the  less  deplorable. 


88  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

It  began,  I  think,  with  the  sheds.  They  had 
in  ages  past  been  added  one  after  another  by  a 
method  of  almost  unconscious  accretion,  as 
the  chambered  nautilus  makes  his  shell.  They 
looked  as  if  they  had  been,  not  exactly  built, 
but  rather  laid  together  in  the  desultory,  pro 
visional  fashion  of  the  farmer,  and  held  by  an 
occasional  nail,  or  the  natural  adhesion  of  the 
boards  themselves.  They  leaned  confidingly 
against  the  great  barn  and  settled  comfort 
ably  among  the  bare  faces  of  rock  in  the  barn 
yard,  as  if  they  had  always  been  there,  as, 
indeed,  they  had  been  there  longer  than  any 
one  now  living  can  remember.  Neither  they 
nor  the  barn  had  ever  been  painted,  and  they 
had  all  weathered  to  a  silver-gray  —  not  the 
gray  of  any  paint  or  stain  ever  made,  but  the 
gray  that  comes  only  to  certain  kinds  of  wood 
when  it  has  lived  out  in  the  rain  and  the  sun 
shine  for  fifty,  seventy,  a  hundred  years.  It  is 
to  an  old  building  what  white  hair  is  to  an  old 
lady.  And  as  not  all  white  hair  is  beautiful, 
so  not  all  gray  buildings  are  beautiful.  But 
these  were  beautiful.  When  it  rained,  they 
grew  dark  and  every  knot-hole  showed.  When 
the  sun  came  out  and  baked  them  dry,  they 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       89 

paled  to  silver,  and  the  smooth,  rain-worn 
grooves  and  hollows  of  the  boards  glistened 
like  a  rifle  barrel. 

The  sheds  were,  I  am  afraid,  not  very  useful. 
One,  they  said,  had  been  built  to  hold  ploughs, 
another  for  turkeys,  another  for  ducks.  One, 
the  only  one  that  was  hen-tight,  we  used  for 
the  incarceration  of  confirmed  "setters,"  and 
it  thus  gained  the  title  of  "Durance  Vile." 
The  rest  were  nameless,  the  abode  of  cobwebs 
and  rats  and  old  grain-bags  and  stolen  nests 
and  surprise  broods  of  chickens,  who  dropped 
through  cracks  between  loose  boards  and  had 
to  be  extracted  by  Jonathan  with  much  diffi 
culty.  Perhaps  it  was  this  that  set  him  against 
them.  At  all  events,  he  decided  that  they 
must  go.  I  protested  faintly,  trying  to  think 
of  some  really  sensible  argument. 

"But  Durance  Vile,"  I  said.  "We  need 
that.  Where  shall  we  put  the  setters?" 

"No,  we  don't.  That  isn't  the  way  to 
treat  setters,  anyway.  They  should  be  cooped 
and  fed  on  meat." 

"I  suppose  you  read  that  in  one  of  those 
agricultural  experiment  station  pamphlets," 
I  said. 


90  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Many  things  that  I  consider  disasters  on 
the  farm  can  be  traced  to  one  or  another  of 
these  little  pamphlets,  and  when  a  new  one 
arrives  I  regard  it  with  resignation  but  with 
out  cordiality. 

The  sheds  went,  and  I  missed  them.  Pos 
sibly  the  hens  missed  them  too.  They  wan 
dered  thoughtfully  about  the  barnyard,  step 
ping  rather  higher  than  usual,  cocking  their 
heads  and  regarding  me  with  their  red-rimmed 
eyes  as  if  they  were  cluckfully  conjuring  up 
old  associations.  Did  they  remember  Durance 
Vile?  Perhaps,  but  probably  not.  For  all 
their  philosophic  airs  and  their  attitudinizing, 
I  know  nobody  who  thinks  less  than  a  hen, 
or,  at  all  events,  their  thinking  is  contempla 
tive  rather  than  practical. 

Jonathan  also  surveyed  the  raw  spot.  But 
Jonathan's  mind  is  practical  rather  than 
contemplative. 

"Just  the  place  for  a  carriage-house,"  he 
remarked. 

And  the  carriage-house  was  perpetrated. 
Perhaps  a  hundred  years  from  now  it  will 
have  been  assimilated,  but  at  present  it 
stands  out  absolutely  undigested  in  all  its 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       91 

uncompromising  newness  of  line  and  color. 
Its  ridgepole,  its  roof  edges,  its  corners,  look 
as  if  they  had  been  drawn  with  a  ruler,  where 
those  of  the  old  barn  were  sketched  freehand. 
The  barn  and  the  sheds  had  settled  into  the 
landscape,  the  carriage-house  cut  into  it. 

Even  Jonathan  saw  it.  "  We  '11  paint  it  the 
old-fashioned  red  to  make  it  more  in  keeping," 
he  said  apologetically. 

But  old-fashioned  red  is  apparently  not  to 
be  had  in  new-fashioned  cans.  And  the  farm 
remained  implacable:  it  refused  to  digest  the 
carriage-house.  I  felt  rather  proud  of  the 
farm  for  being  so  firm. 

The  next  blow  was  a  heavy  one.  In  the 
middle  of  the  cowyard  there  was  a  wonderful 
gray  rock,  shoulder  high,  with  a  flat  top  and 
three  sides  abrupt,  the  other  sloping.  I  used 
to  sit  on  this  rock  and  feed  the  hens  and  watch 
the  "critters"  come  into  the  yard  at  milking- 
time.  I  like  "critters,"  but  when  there  are 
more  than  two  or  three  in  the  yard,  including 
some  irresponsible  calves,  I  like  to  have  some 
vantage-point  from  which  to  view  them  — 
and  be  viewed.  Our  cattle  are  always  gentle, 
but  some  of  them  are,  to  use  a  colloquial  word 


92  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

that  seems  to  me  richly  descriptive,  so 
"nose-y." 

Of  course  a  rock  like  this  did  not  belong  in 
a  well-planned  barnyard.  Nowhere,  except 
in  New  England,  or  perhaps  in  Switzerland, 
would  one  occur.  But  in  our  part  of  New 
England  they  occur  so  thickly  that  they  are 
hard  to  dodge,  even  in  building  a  house.  I 
remember  an  entry  in  an  old  ledger  discov 
ered  in  the  attic:  "To  blasten  rocks  in  my 
sollor  —  £0  3  6." 

Without  doubt  the  rock  was  in  the  way. 
Jonathan  used  to  speak  about  it  in  ungentle 
terms  every  time  he  drove  in  and  turned 
around.  But  this  gave  me  no  anxiety,  because 
I  felt  sure  that  it  had  survived  much  stronger 
language  than  his.  I  did  not  think  about 
dynamite.  Probably  when  the  Psalmist 
wrote  about  the  eternal  hills  he  did  not  think 
about  dynamite  either. 

And  dynamite  did  the  deed.  It  broke  my 
pretty  rock  into  little  pieces  as  one  might 
break  up  a  chunk  of  maple  sugar  with  a  pair 
of  scissors.  It  made  a  beautiful  barnyard,  but 
I  missed  my  refuge,  my  stronghold. 

But  this  was  only  the  beginning.   Back  of 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       93 

the  barns  lay  the  farm  itself  —  scores  of 
acres,  chiefly  rocks  and  huckleberry  bushes, 
with  thistles  and  mullein  and  sumac.  There 
were  dry,  warm  slopes,  where  the  birches 
grew;  not  the  queenly  paper  birch  of  the 
North,  but  the  girlish  little  gray  birch  with  its 
veil  of  twinkling  leaves  and  its  glimmer  of 
slender  stems.  There  were  rugged  ledges, 
deep-shadowed  with  oak  and  chestnut;  there 
were  hot,  open  hillsides  thick-set  with  cat- 
brier  and  blackberry  canes,  where  one  could 
never  go  without  setting  a  brown  rabbit 
scampering.  It  was  a  delectable  farm,  but 
not,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  highly  productive, 
and  its  appeal  was  rather  to  the  contempla 
tive  than  to  the  practical  mind. 

Jonathan  was  from  the  first  infected  with 
the  desire  of  making  the  farm  more  productive 
—  in  the  ordinary  sense;  and  one  day,  when  I 
wandered  up  to  a  distant  corner,  oh,  dismay! 
There  was  a  slope  of  twinkling  birches  — 
no  longer  twinkling  —  prone!  Cut,  dragged, 
and  piled  up  in  masses  of  white  stems  and 
limp  green  leafage  and  tangled  red-brown 
twigs !  It  was  a  sorry  sight.  I  walked  about 
it  much,  perhaps,  as  my  white  hens  had  walked 


94,  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

about  the  barnyard,  and  to  as  little  purpose. 
For  the  contemplative  mind  is  no  match  for 
the  practical.  I  knew  this,  yet  I  could  not 
forbear  saying,  later:  — 

"Jonathan,  I  was  up  near  the  long  meadow 
to-day." 

"Were  you?" 

"O  Jonathan!  Those  birches!" 

44 What  about  them?" 

"All  cut!" 

"Oh,  yes.  We  need  that  piece  for  pastur 
age." 

"Oh,  dear!  We  might  as  well  not  have  a 
farm  if  we  cut  down  all  the  birches." 

"We  might  as  well  not  have  a  farm  if  we 
don't  cut  them  down.  They'll  run  us  out  in 
no  time." 

"They  don't  look  as  if  they  would  run  any 
body  out  —  the  dears!" 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  felt  that  way 
about  them.  W7e  '11  let  that  other  patch  stand, 
if  you  like." 

"7/1  like!" 

I  saved  the  birches,  but  other  things  kept 
happening.  I  went  out  one  day  and  found  one 
of  our  prettiest  fence  lines  reduced  to  bare 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       95 

bones,  all  its  bushes  and  vines  —  clematis, 
elderberry,  wild  cherry,  sweet-fern,  bitter 
sweet  —  all  cut,  hacked,  torn  away.  It  looked 
like  a  collie  dog  in  the  summer  when  his  long 
yellow  fur  has  been  sheared  off.  And,  another 
day,  it  was  a  company  of  red  lilies  escaped 
along  a  bank  above  the  roadside.  There 
were  weeds  mixed  in,  to  be  sure,  and  some 
bushes,  a  delightful  tangle  —  and  all  snipped, 
shaved  to  the  skin ! 

When  I  spoke  about  it,  Jonathan  said: 
"I'm  sorry.  I  suppose  Hiram  was  just  mak 
ing  the  place  shipshape." 

"Shipshape!  This  farm  shipshape!  You 
could  no  more  make  this  farm  shipshape  than 
you  could  make  a  woodchuck  look  as  though 
he  had  been  groomed.  The  farm  is  n't  a  ship." 

"I  hope  it  is  n't  a  woodchuck,  either,"  said 
Jonathan. 

During  the  haying  season  there  was  always 
a  lull.  The  hand  of  the  destroyer  was  stayed. 
Rather,  every  one  was  so  busy  cutting  the  hay 
that  there  was  no  time  to  cut  anything  else. 
One  day  in  early  August  I  took  a  pail  and 
sauntered  up  the  lane  in  the  peaceful  mood  of 
the  berry-picker  —  a  state  of  mind  as  satis- 


96  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

factory  as  any  I  know.  One  is  conscious  of 
being  useful  —  for  what  more  useful  than  the 
accumulating  of  berries  for  pies?  One  has 
suitable  ideals  —  the  ideal  of  a  happy  home, 
since  in  attaining  a  happy  home  berry  pies  are 
demonstrably  helpful.  And  one  is  also  having 
a  beautiful  time.  On  my  way  I  turned  down 
the  side  lane  to  see  how  the  blackberries  were 
coming  on.  There  lay  my  blackberry  canes  — 
lay,  not  stood  —  their  long  stems  thick-set 
with  fruit  just  turning  from  light  red  to  dark. 
I  do  not  love  blackberries  as  I  do  birches;  it 
was  rather  the  practical  than  the  contempla 
tive  part  of  me  that  protested  that  time,  but  it 
was  with  a  lagging  step  that  I  went  on,  over 
the  hill,  to  the  berry  patches.  There  another 
shock  awaited  me.  Where  I  expected  to  see 
green  clumps  of  low  huckleberries  there  were 
great  blotches  of  black  earth  and  gray  ashy 
stems,  and  in  the  midst  a  heap  of  brush  still 
sending  up  idle  streamers  and  puffs  of  blue 
smoke.  Desolation  of  desolations !  That  they 
should  do  this  thing  to  a  harmless  berry 
patch ! 

They  were  not  all  burned.   Only  the  heart 
of  the  patch  had  been  taken,  and  after  the 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       97 

first  shock  I  explored  the  edges  to  see  what 
was  left,  but  with  no  courage  for  picking.  I 
came  home  with  an  empty  pail  and  a  mind 
severe. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said  that  night,  "I  thought 
you  liked  pies?" 

"I  do,"  he  said  expectantly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  like  in  them?" 

"Berries,  preferably." 

"Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  you  preferred 
cinders  or  dried  briers." 

Jonathan  looked  up  inquiringly,  then  a 
light  broke.  "Oh,  you  mean  those  blackberry 
bushes.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  about  that?  That 
was  a  mistake." 

"So  I  thought,"  I  said,  unappeased. 

"I  mean,  I  did  n't  mean  them  to  be  cut.  It 
was  that  fool  hobo  I  gave  work  to  last  week. 
I  told  him  to  cut  the  brush  in  the  lane.  Idiot! 
I  thought  he  knew  a  blackberry  bush!" 

"With  the  fruit  on  it,  too,"  I  added,  re 
lenting  toward  Jonathan  a  little.  Then  I 
stiffened  again.  "How  about  the  huckleberry 
patch?  Was  that  a  mistake,  too?" 

Jonathan  looked  guilty,  but  held  himself 
as  a  man  should. 


98  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Why,  no,"  he  said;  "that  is,  Hiram 
thought  we  needed  more  ground  to  plough 
up  next  year,  and  that's  as  good  a  piece  as 
there  is  —  no  big  rocks  or  trees,  you  know. 
And  we  must  have  crops,  you  know." 

"Bless  the  rocks!"  I  burst  out.  "I  wish 
there  were  more  of  them !  If  it  were  n't  for 
the  rocks  the  farm  would  be  all  crops!" 

Jonathan  laughed,  then  we  both  laughed. 

"You  talk  as  though  that  would  be  a  mis 
fortune,"  he  said. 

"It  would  be  simply  unendurable,"  I  re 
plied. 

"Jonathan,"  I  added,  "I  am  afraid  you 
have  not  a  proper  subordination  of  values. 
I  have  heard  of  one  farmer  —  just  one  — 
who  had." 

"What  is  it?  —and  who  was  he?"  said 
Jonathan,  submissively. 

I  think  he  was  relieved  that  the  huckleberry 
question  was  not  being  followed  up. 

"I  believe  he  was  your  great-uncle  by  mar 
riage.  They  say  that  there  was  a  certain  field 
that  was  full  of  butterfly-weed  —  you  know, 
gorgeous  orange  stuff  — " 

"I  know,"  said  he.  "What  about  it?" 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM       99 

"Well,  there  was  a  meadow  that  was  full  of 
it,  just  in  its  glory  when  the  grass  was  ready  to 
cut.  Jonathan,  what  would  you  have  done  ?  " 

"Go  on,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well,  he  always  mowed  that  field  himself, 
and  when  he  came  to  a  clump  of  butterfly- 
weed,  he  always  mowed  around  it." 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Jonathan,  in  an  im 
personal  way. 

"And  that,"  I  added,  "is  what  I  call  hav 
ing  a  proper  subordination  of  values." 

"I  see,"  said  he. 

"And  now,"  I  went  on,  with  almost  too 
ostentatious  sweetness,  "if  you  will  tell  me 
where  to  find  a  huckleberry  patch  that  is  not 
already  reduced  to  cinders,  I  will  go  out  to 
morrow  and  get  some  for  pies." 

Jonathan  knew,  and  so  did  I,  that  there 
were  still  plenty  of  berry  bushes  left.  Never 
theless,  he  was  moved. 

"Now,  see  here,"  he  began  seriously,  "I 
don't  want  to  spoil  the  farm  for  you*.  Only  I 
don't  know  which  things  you  like.  If  you  '11 
just  tell  me  the  places  you  don't  want  touched, 
I'll  speak  to  Hiram  about  them." 

"Really?"  I  exclaimed.    "Why,  I'll  tell 


100  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

you  now,  right  away.  There's  the  lane  — 
you  know,  that  must  n't  be  touched;  and  the 
ledges  —  but  you  could  n't  do  anything  to 
those,  of  course,  anyway." 

"  No,  even  the  hobo  would  n't  tackle  them," 
said  Jonathan  grimly. 

"And  the  birches,  the  ones  that  are  left. 
You  promised  me  those,  you  know.  And  the 
swamp,  of  course,  and  the  cedar  knoll  where 
the  high-bush  blueberries  grow,  and  then  — 
oh,  yes  —  that  lovely  hillside  beyond  the  long 
meadow  where  the  sumac  is,  and  the  dog 
wood,  and  everything.  And,  of  course,  the 
rest  of  the  huckleberries  — " 

"The  rest  of  the  huckleberries!"  said  he. 
"That  means  all  the  farm.  There  is  n't  a  spot 
as  big  as  your  hat  where  you  can't  show  me 
some  sort  of  a  huckleberry  bush." 

"So  much  the  better,"  I  said  contentedly. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  protested.  "Be  rea 
sonable.  Even  your  wonderful  farmer  that 
you  telF  about  did  a  little  mowing.  He  mowed 
around  the  butterfly-weed,  but  he  mowed. 
You're  making  the  farm  into  solid  butterfly- 
weed,  and  there'll  be  no  mowing  at  all." 

"Why,  Jonathan,  I've  left  you  the  long 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FA^M     101 

meadow,  and  the  corner  meadow,  and  the 
hill  orchard,  and  then  there 's  the  ten-acre  lot 
for  corn  and  potatoes  —  only  I  wish  you 
would  n't  plant  potatoes." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  potatoes?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  First,  they  are  too  neat 
and  green,  and  then  they  are  all  covered  with 
potato-bug  powder,  and  then  they  wither  up 
and  lie  all  around,  and  then  they  are  dug,  and 
the  field  is  a  sight!  Now,  rye  and  corn! 
They're  lovely  from  beginning  to  end." 

Jonathan  ruminated.  "I  seem  to  see  my 
self  expressing  these  ideas  to  Hiram,"  he  re 
marked  dryly. 

"I  suppose  it  all  comes  down  to  the  simple 
question,  What  is  the  farm  for?"  I  said. 

"I  am  afraid  that  is  what  Hiram  would 
think,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Never  mind  about  Hiram,"  I  said  se 
verely.  "Now  really,  away  down  deep,  have 
n't  you  yourself  a  sneaking  desire  for  —  oh, 
for  crops,  and  for  having  things  look  ship 
shape,  as  you  call  it?  Now,  have  n't  you?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Jonathan,  as  though  we 
were  talking  about  a  third  person. 

"I  don't  wonder;  I  know.  The  trouble  with 


102  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

men,"  I  went  on,  "is  that  when  they  want  to 
make  a  thing  look  well,  all  they  can  think  of 
is  cutting  and  chopping.  Look  at  a  man  when 
he  goes  to  a  party,  or  to  have  his  picture 
taken!  He  always  dashes  to  the  barber's 
first  —  that  is,  unless  there 's  a  woman  around 
to  interfere.  Do  you  remember  Jack  Mason 
when  he  was  married?  Face  and  neck  the 
color  of  raw  beef  from  sunburn,  and  hair 
cropped  so  close  it  made  his  head  look  like  a 
drab  egg!" 

"I  did  n't  notice,"  said  Jonathan. 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  You  would  have  done 
the  same  thing  —  you're  all  alike.  Look  at 
horses!  When  men  want  to  make  a  horse  look 
stylish,  why,  chop  off  his  tail,  of  course !  And 
they  are  only  beginning  to  learn  better.  When 
a  man  builds  a  house,  what  does  he  do?  Cuts 
down  every  tree,  every  bush  and  twig,  and 
makes  it  'shipshape,'  as  you  call  it.  And  then 
the  women  have  to  come  along  and  plant 
everything  all  over  again." 

"But  things  need  cutting  now  and  then," 
said  Jonathan.  "You  would  n't  like  it,  you 
know,  if  a  man  never  went  to  the  barber's. 
He'd  look  like  a  woodchuck." 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM     103 

"There  are  worse-looking  things  than  wood- 
chucks.  Still,  of  course,  there's  a  medium. 
Possibly  the  woodchuck  carries  neglect  to 


excess." 


The  discussion  rested  there.  I  do  not  know 
whether  Jonathan  expressed  any  of  these 
ideas  to  Hiram,  but  the  grooming  process 
appeared  to  be  temporarily  suspended.  Then 
one  day  my  turn  came.  It  was  dusk,  and  I 
was  sitting  on  an  old  log  at  the  back  of  the 
orchard,  looking  out  over  the  little  swamp,  all 
a-t winkle  with  fireflies.  Jonathan  had  been 
up  the  lane,  prowling  about,  as  he  often  does 
at  nightfall,  "to  take  a  look  at  the  farm."  I 
heard  his  step  in  the  lane,  and  he  jumped  over 
the  bars  at  the  far  end  of  the  orchard.  There 
was  a  pause,  then  a  vehement  exclamation  — 
too  vehement  to  print.  Jonathan's  remarks 
do  not  usually  need  editing,  and  I  listened  to 
these  in  the  dusk  in  some  degree  of  wonder, 
if  not  of  positive  enjoyment. 

Finally  I  called  out,  "What's  the  matter? " 

"Oh!  You  there?"  He  strode  over.  "Mat 
ter!  Come  and  see  what  that  fool  hobo  did." 

"You  called  him  something  besides  that  a 
moment  ago,"  I  remarked. 


104  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I  hope  so.  Whatever  I  called  him, he's  it. 
Come  over." 

He  led  me  to  the  orchard  edge,  and  there 
in  the  half  light  I  saw  a  line  of  stubs  and  a 
pile  of  brush. 

"Not  your  quince  bushes!"  I  gasped. 

"Just  that,"  he  said,  grimly,  and  then 
burst  into  further  unprintable  phrases  descrip 
tive  of  the  city-bred  loafer.  "If  I  ever  give 
work  to  a  hobo  again,  I'll  be  — " 

"Sh-h-h,"  I  said;  and  I  could  not  forbear 
adding,  "Now  you  know  how  I  have  felt 
about  those  huckleberry  bushes  and  birches 
and  things,  only  I  had  n't  the  language  to 
express  it." 

"You  have  language  enough,"  said  Jona 
than. 

Undoubtedly  Jonathan  was  depressed.  I 
had  been  depressed  for  some  time  on  account 
of  the  grooming  of  my  berry  patches  and 
fence  lines,  but  now  I  found  myself  growing 
suddenly  cheerful.  I  do  not  habitually  batten 
on  the  sorrow  of  others,  but  this  was  a  special 
case.  For  how  could  I  be  blind  to  the  fact 
that  chance  had  thrust  a  weapon  into  my 
hand?  I  knew  that  hereafter,  at  critical  mo- 


THE  GROOMING  OF  THE  FARM     105 

ments,  I  need  only  murmur  "quince  bushes" 
and  discussion  would  die  out.  It  made  me 
feel  very  gentle  towards  Jonathan,  to  be  thus 
armed  against  him.  Gentle,  but  also  cheerful. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  "it's  no  use  standing 
here.  Come  back  to  the  log  where  I  was  sit 
ting." 

He  came,  with  heavy  tread.  We  sat  down, 
and  looked  out  over  the  twinkling  swamp. 
The  hay  had  just  been  cut,  and  the  air  was 
richly  fragrant.  The  hush  of  night  encom 
passed  us,  yet  the  darkness  was  full  of  life. 
Crickets  chirruped  steadily  in  the  orchard 
behind  us.  From  a  distant  meadow  the  purr 
ing  whistle  of  the  whip-poor-will  sounded  in 
continuous  cadence,  like  a  monotonous  and 
gentle  lullaby.  The  woods  beyond  the  open 
swamp,  a  shadowy  blur  against  the  sky,  were 
still,  except  for  a  sleepy  note  now  and  then 
from  some  bird  half -a  wakened.  Once  a  wood 
thrush  sang  his  daytime  song  all  through,  and 
murmured  part  of  it  a  second  time,  then  sank 
into  silence. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said  at  last,  "the  farm  is 
rather  a  good  place  to  be." 

"Not  bad." 


106  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Let's  not  groom  it  too  much.  Let's  not 
make  it  too  shipshape.  After  all,  you  know, 
it  is  n't  really  a  ship." 

"Nor  yet  a  woodchuck,  I  hope,"  said 
Jonathan. 

And  I  was  content  not  to  press  the  matter. 


VIII 

"Escaped  from  Old  Gardens" 

IN  the  days  when  I  deemed  it  necessary  to 
hunt  down  in  my  well-thumbed  Gray  every 
flower  of  wood  and  field,  and  fit  it  to  its  Latin 
name,  I  used  often  to  meet  this  phrase.  At 
first,  being  young,  I  resented  it.  I  scorned 
gardens:  their  carefully  planned  and  duly 
tended  splendors  were  not  for  me.  The  orchid 
in  the  deep  woods  or  by  the  edge  of  the  lonely 
swamp,  the  rare  and  long-sought  heather  in 
the  open  moorland,  these  it  was  that  roused 
my  ardor.  And  to  find  that  some  newly  dis 
covered  flower  was  not  a  wild  flower  at  all, 
but  merely  a  garden  flower  "escaped"!  The 
very  word  carried  a  hint  of  reprobation. 

But  as  the  years  went  on,  the  phrase  gath 
ered  to  itself  meanings  vague  and  subtle.  I 
found  myself  welcoming  it  and  regarding  with 
a  warmer  interest  the  flower  so  described. 
From  what  old  garden  had  it  come?  What 
associations  and  memories  did  it  bring  out 


108  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

of  the  past?  Had  the  paths  where  it  grew 
been  obliterated  by  the  encroachments  of  a 
ruthless  civilization,  or  had  the  tide  of  human 
life  drawn  away  from  it  and  left  it  to  be  en 
gulfed  by  the  forest  from  which  it  had  once 
been  wrested,  with  nothing  left  to  mark  it 
but  a  gnarled  old  lilac  tree?  I  have  chanced 
upon  such  spots  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 
where  the  lilac  and  the  apple  tree  and  the  old 
stoned  cellar  wall  are  all  that  are  left  to  test 
ify  to  the  human  life  that  once  centred  there. 
Or  had  the  garden  from  which  its  seed  was 
blown  only  fallen  into  a  quiet  decay,  deserted 
but  not  destroyed,  left  to  bloom  unchecked 
and  untended,  and  fling  its  seeds  to  the  sum 
mer  winds  that  its  flowers  might  "escape" 
whither  they  would? 

Lately,  I  chanced  upon  such  a  garden.  I 
was  walking  along  a  quiet  roadside,  almost 
dusky  beneath  the  shade  of  close-set  giant 
maples,  when  an  unexpected  fragrance 
breathed  upon  me.  I  lingered,  wondering.  It 
came  again,  in  a  warm  wave  of  the  August 
breeze.  I  looked  up  at  the  tangled  bank  beside 
me  —  surely,  there  was  a  spray  of  box  peep 
ing  out  through  the  tall  weeds!  There  was  a 


"ESCAPED  FROM  OLD  GARDENS"    109 

bush  of  it  —  another!  Ah!  it  was  a  hedge,  a 
box  hedge!  Here  were  the  great  stone  steps 
leading  up  to  the  gate,  and  here  the  old,  square 
capped  fence-posts,  once  trim  and  white,  now 
sunken  and  silver-gray.  The  rest  of  the  fence 
was  lying  among  the  grasses  and  goldenrod, 
but  the  box  still  lived,  dead  at  the  top,  its  leaf 
less  branches  matted  into  a  hoary  gray  tangle, 
but  springing  up  from  below  in  crisp  green 
sprays,  lustrous  and  fragrant  as  ever,  and 
richly  suggestive  of  the  past  that  produced  it. 
For  the  box  implies  not  merely  human  life, 
but  human  life  on  a  certain  scale:  leisurely, 
decorous,  well-considered.  It  implies  faith  in 
an  established  order  and  an  assured  future.  A 
beautiful  box  hedge  is  not  planned  for  im 
mediate  enjoyment;  it  is  built  up  inch  by 
inch  through  the  years,  a  legacy  to  one's  heirs. 
Beside  the  gate-posts  stood  what  must  once 
have  been  two  pillars  of  box.  As  I  passed  be 
tween  them  my  feet  felt  beneath  the  matted 
weeds  of  many  seasons  the  broad  stones  of  the 
old  flagged  walk  that  led  up  through  the  gar 
den  to  the  house.  Following  it,  I  found,  not 
the  house,  but  the  wide  stone  blocks  of  the  old 
doorsteps,  and  beyond  these,  a  ruin  —  gray 


110  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ashes  and  blackened  brick,  two  great  heaps 
of  stone  where  the  chimneys  had  been,  with 
the  stone  slabs  that  lined  the  fireplaces  fallen 
together.  At  one  end  was  the  deep  stone  cellar 
filled  now  with  young  beeches  as  tall  as  the 
house  once  was.  Just  outside  stood  two 
cherry  trees  close  to  the  old  house  wall  —  so 
close  that  they  had  burned  with  it  and  now 
stood,  black  and  bare  and  gaunt,  in  silent 
comradeship.  At  the  other  end  I  almost 
stumbled  into  the  old  well,  dark  and  still,  with 
a  glimmer  of  sky  at  the  bottom. 

But  I  did  not  like  the  ruin,  nor  the  black 
well  lurking  in  the  weeds  and  ashes.  The  gar 
den  was  better,  and  I  went  back  to  it  and  fol 
lowed  the  stone  path  as  it  turned  past  the 
end  of  the  house  and  led,  under  another 
broad  hedge  of  box  now  choked  by  lusty 
young  maples,  to  the  old  rose-garden.  Beyond 
were  giant  lilacs,  and  groups  of  waxberry 
bushes  covered  with  the  pretty  white  balls 
that  children  love  to  string;  there  was  the  old- 
fashioned  "burning-bush,"  already  preparing 
its  queer,  angled  berries  for  autumn  splendors. 
And  among  these,  still  holding  their  own  in 
the  tangle,  clumps  of  the  tall,  rose-lilac  phloxes 


"ESCAPED  FROM  OLD  GARDENS"    111 

that  the  old  people  seem  specially  to  have 
loved,  swayed  in  the  light  breeze  and  filled 
the  place  with  their  heavy,  languorous  fra 
grance. 

Truly,  it  is  a  lovely  spot,  my  old  garden, 
lovelier,  perhaps,  than  when  it  was  in  its 
golden  prime,  when  its  hedges  were  faultlessly 
trimmed  and  its  walks  were  edged  with  neat 
flower  borders,  when  their  smooth  flagging- 
stones  showed  never  a  weed,  and  even  the 
little  heaps  of  earth  piled  up,  grain  by  grain, 
by  the  industrious  ants,  were  swept  away  each 
morning  by  the  industrious  broom.  Then 
human  life  centred  here;  now  it  is  very  far 
away.  All  the  sounds  of  the  outside  world 
come  faintly  to  this  place  and  take  on  its 
quality  of  quiet,  —  the  lowing  of  cows  in  the 
pastures,  the  shouts  of  men  in  the  fields,  the 
deep,  vibrant  note  of  the  railroad  train  which 
goes  singing  across  distances  where  its  rattle 
and  roar  fail  to  penetrate.  It  is  very  still  here. 
Even  the  birds  are  quieter,  and  the  crickets 
and  the  katydids  less  boisterous.  The  red 
squirrels  move  warily  through  the  tree-tops 
with  almost  a  chastened  air,  the  black-and- 
gold  butterflies  flutter  indolently  about  the 


THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

heads  of  the  phlox,  a  hummingbird,  flashing 
green,  hovers  about  some  belated  blossom- 
heads  of  the  scarlet  bee-balm,  and  then,  as  if 
to  point  the  stillness,  alights  on  an  apple  twig, 
looking,  when  at  rest,  so  very  small!  Only 
the  cicada,  as  he  rustles  clumsily  about  with 
his  paper  wings  against  the  flaking  bark  and 
yellowing  leaves  of  an  old  apple  tree,  seems 
unmindful  of  the  spell  of  silence  that  holds 
the  place. 

And  the  garden  is  mine  now  —  mine  be 
cause  I  have  found  it,  and  every  one  else,  as  I 
like  to  believe,  has  forgotten  it.  Next  it  is  a 
grove  of  big  old  trees.  Would  they  not  have 
been  cut  down  years  ago  if  any  one  had  re 
membered  them?  And  on  the  other  side  is  a 
meadow  whose  thick  grass,  waist-high,  ought 
to  have  been  mowed  last  June  and  gathered 
into  some  dusky,  fragrant  barn.  But  it  is  for 
gotten,  like  the  garden,  and  will  go  leisurely 
to  seed  out  there  in  the  sun;  the  autumn 
winds  will  sweep  it  and  the  winter  snow  will 
mat  down  its  dried  tangle. 

Forgotten  —  and  as  I  lie  in  the  long  grass, 
drowsy  with  the  scent  of  the  hedge  and  the 
phlox,  I  seem  only  a  memory  myself.  If  I 


"ESCAPED  FROM  OLD  GARDENS"    113 

stay  too  long  I  shall  forget  to  go  away,  and 
no  one  will  remember  to  find  me.  In  truth,  I 
feel  not  unwilling  that  it  should  be  so.  Could 
there  be  a  better  place?  "Escaped  from  old 
gardens"!  Ah,  foolish,  foolish  flowers!  If  I 
had  the  happiness  to  be  born  in  an  old  garden, 
I  would  not  escape.  I  would  stay  there,  and 
dream  there,  forever! 


IX 

The  Country  Road 

ON  a  June  day,  years  ago,  I  was  walking 
along  our  country  road.  At  the  top  of  a  steep 
little  hill  I  paused  to  rest  and  let  my  eyes  lux 
uriate  in  the  billowing  greens  and  tender  blues 
of  the  valley  below.  While  I  stood  there  my 
neighbor  came  slowly  up  from  the  garden, 
her  apron  over  her  head,  a  basket  of  green 
peas  on  her  arm. 

"What  a  view  you  have  up  here  on  your 
hill!"  I  said. 

She  drew  back  her  apron  and  turned  to  look 
off.  "Yes,"  she  said  indulgently;  "ye-e-s." 
Then  her  face  brightened  and  she  turned  to 
me  with  real  animation:  "But  it's  better  in 
winter  when  the  leaves  is  off,  V  you  c'n  see 
the  passin'  on  the  lower  road." 

Fresh  from  the  city  as  I  was,  with  all  its 
prejudices  and  intolerance  upon  me,  I  was 
partly  amused,  partly  irritated,  by  her  answer. 
So  all  this  glory  of  greenness,  all  this  wonder  of 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  115 

the  June  woodland,  was  merely  tolerated, 
while  the  baffled  observer  waited  for  the 
leaves  to  be  "off"!  And  all  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  —  what?  A  few  lumber  wagons,  for 
sooth,  loaded  with  ties  for  the  railway,  a  few 
cows  driven  along  morning  and  evening,  a  few 
children  trudging  to  and  from  school,  the 
postman's  buggy  on  its  daily  rounds,  twice  a 
week  the  meat  cart,  once  a  week  the  grocery 
wagon,  once  a  month  the  "tea-man,"  and 
now  and  then  a  neighbor's  team  on  its  way  to 
the  feed-store  or  the  blacksmith's  shop  down 
at  "the  Corners." 

For  this,  then,  —  not  for  the  beauty  of  the 
winter  landscape,  but  for  this  poor  procession 
of  wayfarers,  my  neighbors  waited  with  im 
patience.  If  I  could,  I  would  have  snatched 
up  their  view  bodily  and  carried  it  off  with  me, 
back  to  my  own  farm  for  my  own  particular 
delectation.  It  should  never  again  have 
shoved  itself  in  their  way. 

But  since  that  time  I  have  lived  longer  in 
the  country.  If  I  have  not  made  it  my  home 
for  all  twelve  months,  I  have  dwelt  in  it  from 
early  April  to  mid-December,  and  now,  when  I 
think  of  my  neighbor's  remark,  it  is  with  grow- 


116  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ing  comprehension.  I  realize  that  I,  in  my 
patronizing  one-sidedness,  was  quite  wrong. 

City  folk  go  to  the  country,  as  they  say,  to 
"get  away"  —  justifiable  enough,  perhaps, 
or  perhaps  not.  They  seek  spots  remote  from 
the  centres;  they  choose  deserted  districts, 
untraveled  roads;  they  criticize  their  ances 
tors  unmercifully  for  their  custom  of  building 
houses  close  to  the  road  and  keeping  the  front 
dooryard  clear  of  shrubbery.  But  they  who 
built  those  homes  which  are  our  summer 
refuge  did  not  want  to  get  away;  they  wanted 
to  get  together.  The  country  was  not  their 
respite,  it  was  their  life,  and  the  road  was  to 
them  the  emblem  of  race  solidarity  —  nay, 
more  than  the  emblem,  it  was  the  means  to 
it.  This  is  still  the  case  with  the  country  peo 
ple,  and  as  I  live  among  them  I  am  coming  to 
a  realization  of  the  meaning  of  the  Road. 

In  the  city  one  can  never  get  just  this. 
There  are  streets,  of  course,  but  by  their  very 
multiplicity  and  complexity  they  lose  their 
individual  impressiveness  and  are  merged  in 
that  great  whole,  the  City.  One  recoils  from 
them  and  takes  refuge  in  the  sense  of  one's 
own  home. 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  117 

But  in  the  country  there  is  just  the  Road. 
Recoil  from  it?  One's  heart  goes  out  to  it. 
The  road  is  a  part  of  home,  the  part  that 
reaches  out  to  our  friends  and  draws  them  to 
us  or  brings  us  to  them.  It  is  our  outdoor 
clubhouse,  it  is  the  avenue  of  the  Expected 
and  the  Unexpected,  it  is  the  Home  Road. 

In  a  sense  it  does  no  more  for  us,  and  in 
some  ways  much  less,  than  our  city  streets  do. 
Along  these,  too,  our  tradesmen's  carts  come 
to  our  doors,  along  these  our  friends  must  fare 
as  they  arrive  or  depart;  we  seek  the  streets 
at  our  outgoings  and  our  incomings.  But  they 
are,  after  all,  strictly  a  means.  We  use  them, 
but  when  we  enter  our  homes  we  forget  them, 
or  try  to.  Our  individual  share  in  the  street 
is  not  large.  So  much  goes  on  and  goes  by 
that  has  only  the  most  general  bearing  on  our 
interests  that  we  cease  to  give  it  our  attention 
at  all.  It  is  not  good  form  to  watch  the  street, 
because  it  is  not  worth  while.  When  children's 
voices  fly  in  at  our  windows,  we  assume  that 
they  are  other  people's  children,  and  they 
usually  are.  When  we  hear  teams,  we  expect 
them  to  go  by,  and  they  usually  do.  When  we 
hear  a  cab  door  slam,  we  take  it  for  granted 


118  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

that  it  is  before  some  other  house,  and  usually 
it  is.  And  if,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  we 
perchance  walk  to  the  window  and  glance  out 
between  the  curtains,  we  are  repaid  by  seeing 
nothing  interesting  and  by  feeling  a  little 
shamefaced  besides. 

Not  so  in  the  country.  What  happens 
along  the  Road  is  usually  our  intimate  con 
cern.  Most  of  those  who  go  by  on  it  are  our 
own  acquaintances  and  neighbors,  and  are 
interesting  as  such.  The  rest  are  strangers, 
and  interesting  as  such.  For  it  is  the  rarity 
of  the  stranger  that  gives  him  his  piquancy. 

And  so  in  the  country  it  is  both  good  form 
and  worth  while  to  watch  the  Road  —  to 
"keep  an  eye  out,"  as  they  say.  When  Jona 
than  and  I  first  came  to  the  farm,  we  were 
incased  in  a  hard  incrustation  of  city  ways. 
When  teams  passed,  we  did  not  look  up;  when 
a  wagon  rattled,  we  did  not  know  whose  it 
was,  and  we  said  we  did  not  care.  W7hen  one 
of  our  neighbors  remarked,  casually,  "Heard 
Bill  Smith's  team  go  by  at  half-past  eleven 
last  night.  WTonder  if  the's  anythin'  wrong 
down  his  way,"  we  stared  at  one  another  in 
amazement,  and  wondered,  "Now,  how  in  the 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  119 

world  did  he  know  it  was  Bill  Smith's  team?" 
We  smiled  over  the  story  of  a  postmistress 
who  had  the  ill  luck  to  be  selling  stamps  when 
a  carriage  passed.  She  hastily  shoved  them 
out,  and  ran  to  the  side  window  —  too  late ! 
"Sakes!"  she  sighed;  "that's  the  second  I've 
missed  to-day!"  We  smiled,  but  I  know  now 
that  if  I  had  been  in  that  postmistress's  place 
I  should  have  felt  exactly  as  she  did. 

When  we  began  to  realize  the  change  in 
ourselves,  we  were  at  first  rather  sheepish  and 
apologetic  about  it.  We  fell  into  the  way  of 
sitting  where  we  could  naturally  glance  out 
of  the  windows,  but  we  did  this  casually,  as  if 
by  chance,  and  said  nothing  about  it.  When 
August  came,  and  dusk  fell  early  and  lamps 
were  lighted  at  supper-time,  I  drew  down  the 
shades. 

But  one  night  Jonathan  said,  carelessly, 
"Why  do  you  pull  them  all  the  way  down?" 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  with  perhaps  just  a 
suspicion. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it  always  seems  so  cheer 
ful  from  the  road  to  look  in  at  a  lighted 
window." 

I  left  them  up,  but  I  noticed  that  Jonathan 


120  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

kept  a  careful  eye  on  the  shadowy  road  out 
side.  Was  he  trying  to  cheer  it  by  pleasant 
looks,  I  wondered,  or  was  he  just  trying  to 
see  all  that  went  by? 

Jonathan's  seat  is  not  so  good  as  mine  for 
observation.  A  big  deutzia  bush  looms  between 
his  window  and  the  road,  while  at  my  window 
only  the  tips  of  a  waxberry  bush  obscure  the 
view,  and  there  is  a  door  beside  me.  Therefore 
Jonathan  was  distinctly  at  a  disadvantage. 
He  offered  to  change  seats,  suggesting  that 
there  was  a  draft  where  I  was,  and  that  the 
light  was  bad  for  my  eyes,  but  I  found  that  I 
did  not  mind  either  of  these  things. 

One  day  a  team  passed  while  Jonathan  was 
carving.  He  looked  up  too  late,  hesitated, 
then  said,  rather  consciously:  "Who  was  that? 
Did  you  see?" 

"/  don't  know,"  I  said,  with  a  far-away, 
impersonal  air,  as  though  the  matter  had 
no  interest  for  me.  But  I  had  n't  the  heart 
to  keep  up  the  pose,  and  I  added:  "Perhaps 
you'll  know.  It  was  a  white  horse,  and  a 
business  wagon  with  red  wheels,  and  the  man 
wore  a  soft  felt  hat,  and  there  was  a  dog  on 
the  seat  beside  him." 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  121 

Before  I  had  finished,  Jonathan  was  grin 
ning  delightedly.  "Suppose  we  shake  these 
city  ways,"  he  said.  He  deliberately  got  up, 
raised  the  shades,  pushed  back  a  curtain,  and 
moved  a  jug  of  goldenrod.  "There!  Can  you 
see  better  now?"  he  asked. 

And  I  said  cheerfully,  "Yes,  quite  a  good 
deal  better.  And  after  this,  Jonathan,  when 
you  hear  a  team  coming,  why  don't  you  stop 
carving  till  it  goes  by?" 

"I  will,"  said  Jonathan. 

It  was  our  final  capitulation,  and  since 
then  we  have  been  much  more  comfortable. 
We  run  to  the  window  whenever  we  feel  in 
clined,  and  we  leave  our  shades  up  at  dusk 
without  apology  or  circumlocution.  We  are 
coming  to  know  our  neighbors'  teams  by 
their  sound,  and  we  are  proud  of  it.  Why,  in 
deed,  should  we  be  ashamed  of  this  human 
interest?  Why  should  we  be  elated  that  we 
can  recognize  a  bluebird  by  his  flight,  and 
ashamed  of  knowing  our  neighbor's  old  bay 
by  his  gait?  Why  should  we  boast  of  our 
power  to  recognize  the  least  murmur  of  the 
deceptive  grosbeak,  and  not  take  pride  in 
being  able  to  "spot"  Bill  Smith's  team  by  the 


122  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

peculiar  rattle  of  its  board  bottom  as  it 
crosses  the  bridge  by  the  mill?  Is  he  not  of 
more  value  than  many  grosbeaks?  But  how 
can  we  love  our  neighbor  if  we  do  not  pay 
some  attention  to  him  —  him  and  his  horse 
and  his  cart  and  all  that  is  his?  And  how  shall 
we  pay  attention  to  him  if  we  neglect  the 
opportunities  of  the  Road,  since  for  the  rest 
he  is  busy  and  we  are  busy,  and  we  belong 
each  to  our  own  farm? 

I  stopped  at  a  friendly  door  one  day  to  ask, 
"Have  Phil  and  Jimmy  gone  by?  I  wanted 
to  see  them." 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  them."  The  bright- 
faced  little  lady  stood  in  the  doorway  glanc 
ing  over  my  shoulder  out  toward  the  sunny 
road.  "  Have  you  seem  them  to-day,  Nellie?  " 
she  called  into  the  dusky  sitting-room.  "  No," 
she  turned  back  to  me,  "we  haven't  seen 
them.  And,"  she  added,  with  gay  directness, 
"nobody  could  get  by  the  house  without  our 
seeing  them;  I'm  sure  of  that!" 

Her  remark  pleased  me  immensely.  I  like 
this  frank  interest  in  the  Road  very  much. 
When  I  am  at  home,  I  have  it  myself,  and  I 
have  stopped  being  ashamed  of  it.  When  I 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  123 

am  on  the  Road,  I  like  to  know  that  I  am  an 
object  of  interest  to  the  dwellers  in  the  houses 
I  pass.  I  look  up  at  the  windows,  whose  tiny 
panes  reflect  the  brightness  of  outdoors  and 
tell  me  nothing  of  the  life  within,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  some  one  behind  them  knows  that 
I  am  going  by.  Often  there  is  some  sign  of 
recognition  —  a  motion  of  the  hand  through 
a  parted  curtain,  or  rarely  a  smiling  face;  now 
and  then  some  one  looks  out  from  a  doorway 
to  send  a  greeting,  or  glances  up  from  the  gar 
den  or  the  well ;  but  even  without  these  tokens 
I  still  have  the  sense  of  being  noticed,  and  I 
find  it  pleasant  and  companionable.  In  the 
city,  when  I  go  to  see  a  friend,  I  approach  a 
house  that  gives  no  sign.  I  mount  to  a  non 
committal  vestibule  and  push  an  impersonal 
button,  and  after  the  other  necessary  prelim 
inaries  I  find  my  friends.  In  the  country  as  I 
drive  up  to  the  house  I  notice  curtains  stir 
ring,  I  hear  voices,  and  before  I  have  had 
time  to  get  out  and  find  the  hitch-rope  every 
person  in  the  house  is  either  at  the  gate  or 
standing  in  the  doorway.  Our  visit  is  begun 
before  we  have  left  the  Road,  the  hospitable, 
social  Road.  Such  ways  would  probably  not 


124  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

do  for  the  city.  So  much  the  worse  for  the 
city.  The  country  ways  are  best. 

Everything  that  happens  along  the  Road 
has  the  social  touch.  In  the  city,  orders  are 
given  by  telephone,  and  when  the  delivery 
wagon  comes,  it  sweeps  up  with  a  rush,  the 
boy  seizes  a  basket  and  jumps  out,  runs  to 
the  back  door,  shouts  the  name  of  the  owner, 
slams  down  his  goods,  and  dashes  back  to  the 
wagon,  with  a  crisp  "Git-up!"  to  the  well- 
trained  horse,  who  starts  forward  while  his 
driver  is  still  mounting  to  his  seat. 

Not  so  in  the  country.  The  wagon  draws 
peacefully  out  to  the  side  of  the  Iload,  and 
the  horse  falls  to  nibbling  grass  if  he  is  un 
checked,  or  to  browsing  on  my  rosebushes  ii 
he  is  not.  If  it  is  the  grocer's  wagon,  the  boy 
comes  around  to  the  back  porch  and  we  dis 
cuss  what  supplies  will  probably  be  needed  by 
the  time  of  his  next  visit.  Incidentally,  we  talk 
about  weather  and  crops  and  woodchucks 
and  trout,  or  bass  or  partridges,  according  to 
the  season.  If  it  is  the  meat  cart  or  the  fish 
wagon,  I  seize  a  platter  and  go  out,  the  back 
flap  of  the  cart  is  lifted  up,  I  step  under  its 
shade  and  peer  in,  considering  what  is  offered 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  125 

me  and  deciding  what  I  will  have  plucked  out 
for  me  to  carry  back  to  the  house. 

Besides  the  routine  visitors,  there  are 
others  —  peddlers  with  wonderful  collections 
of  things  to  sell  (whole  clothing  shops  or  furn 
iture  stores  some  of  them  bring  with  them), 
peddlers  with  books,  peddlers  with  silver, 
peddlers  with  jewelry.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
months  one  is  offered  everything  from  shoe 
strings  to  stoves.  There  are  men  who  want 
to  buy,  too,  —  buyers  of  old  iron,  of  old  rags, 
of  old  rubber.  "Anny-ting,  anny-ting  vat 
you  vill  sell  me,  madame,  I  vill  buy  it,"  said 
one,  with  outspread  hands. 

Cattle  go  by,  great  droves  of  them,  being 
driven  along  the  Road  and  sold  from  farm  to 
farm  until  all  are  gone.  I  love  the  day  that 
brings  them.  A  dust  haze  down  the  Road, 
the  mooing  of  cows  and  the  baaing  of  calves, 
the  shouts  of  the  drovers,  the  sound  of  many 
hoofs,  and  the  cattle  are  here.  The  farmer 
and  the  "hired  man"  leave  their  work  and 
saunter  out  to  the  Road  to  "look  'em  over," 
the  children  come  running  out  to  watch  the 
pretty  creatures,  sleek  or  tousled,  soft-eyed  or 
wild-eyed,  yearlings  with  bits  of  horns,  stocky 


126  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

two-year-olds,  and  wabbly-legged  youngsters 
hardly  able  to  keep  pace  with  the  rest,  all  of 
them  glad  enough  of  the  chance  to  pause  in 
the  shade  and  nibble  at  the  rich,  cool  grass. 
One  or  two  of  the  "critters"  are  approved  of, 
perhaps,  and  bought,  and  the  rest  move  on, 
the  sunny  dust  haze  rises  and  clears,  the 
shouts  of  the  drovers  grow  faint,  and  the 
Road  is  still  again. 

Men  go  by  looking  for  work;  they  will  clean 
your  well  for  you,  they  will  file  your  horses' 
teeth  for  you,  they  will  mend  your  umbrellas 
and  repair  your  clocks  and  sharpen  your  scis 
sors.  In  the  city,  when  we  hear  the  scissors- 
grinder  ding-ding-dinging  along  the  street, 
we  wonder  in  an  impersonal  way  how  he 
makes  a  living;  but  in  the  country  we  espy 
him  from  afar  and  are  out  at  the  gate  to  meet 
him,  with  all  the  scissors  and  knives  in  the 
house. 

There  are  tramps,  too,  of  course.  Not  the 
kind  one  finds  near  cities,  or  in  crowded 
summer  watering-places.  Our  Road  does  not 
lead  to  Rome,  at  least  not  very  directly,  and 
the  tramp  who  chooses  it  is  sure  to  be  a  mild 
and  unenterprising  creature,  a  desultory 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  127 

tramp  who  does  not  really  know  his  business. 
Some  of  the  same  ones  come  back  year  after 
year,  and,  in  defiance  of  modern  sociological 
science,  we  offer  them  the  hospitality  of  the 
back  porch  with  sandwiches  and  coffee,  while 
we  exchange  the  commonplaces  of  the  season. 
It  is  the  custom  of  the  Road. 

And  so  the  procession  of  the  Road  moves 
on.  If  we  wait  long  enough  —  and  it  is  not 
so  long  either  —  everything  goes  by:  gay 
wedding  parties,  christening  parties,  slow 
funerals,  the  Road  bears  them  all;  and  to 
those  who  live  beside  it  nothing  is  alien,  no 
thing  indifferent.  Throughout  the  week  the 
daytime  is  for  business  —  remembering  al 
ways  that  on  the  country  Road  business  is 
never  merely  business,  but  always  sociability 
too;  the  early  evening  is  for  pleasure;  the 
night  is  for  rest,  for  that  stillness  that  cities 
never  know,  broken  only  when  human  neces 
sity  most  sharply  importunes,  in  the  crises  of 
birth,  of  death.  On  Sundays  all  the  world 
drives  to  church,  or  sits  on  its  doorstep  and 
watches  the  rest.  And  Sunday  and  week 
days  alike,  every  one's  interest  goes  out  to  the 
Road. 


128  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

I  venture  to  say  that  when  we  think  of  our 
city  homes  we  think  of  their  interiors,  but 
when  we  think  of  our  farmhouse  homes  we 
think  of  the  Road  as  well.  They  are  like  little 
islands  in  a  river,  —  one  remembers  them 
together.  For  the  Road  is  a  river  —  a  river  of 
life.  Most  of  our  words  about  roads  imply 
motion.  A  road  comes,  we  say,  and  it  goes,  it 
sweeps,  it  curves,  it  climbs,  it  descends,  it 
rises  and  drops,  it  bends  and  turns.  And,  in 
fact,  it  means  movement,  it  is  always  bringing 
life  and  taking  it  again,  or  if  for  a  time  it  does 
neither,  it  is  always  inviting,  always  promis 
ing.  We  have  all  felt  it.  As  we  are  whirled 
along  in  a  railway  train  even,  the  thing  that 
stirs  our  imagination  is  the  roads,  the  paths. 
I  can  still  remember  glimpses  of  these  that  I 
had  years  ago  —  a  footpath  over  a  rounded 
hilltop  through  long  yellow  grass,  a  rough 
logging-road  beside  a  foaming  mountain 
river,  a  brushy  wood  road  leading  through 
bars  into  deep  shade,  a  country  road  at  dusk, 
curving  past  a  low  farmhouse  with  lights  in 
the  windows.  I  could  never  follow  these 
roads,  but  I  remember  them  still,  and  still 
they  allure  me. 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  129 

Our  Road,  as  it  flows  placidly  past  our 
farm,  suggests  nothing  very  exciting  or  spec 
tacular.  It  is  a  pretty  bit  of  road,  rounding  a 
rocky  corner  of  the  farm  and  leading  past  the 
old  house  under  cool  depths  of  maple  shade, 
out  again  into  a  broad  space  of  sunlight, 
dropping  over  a  little  hill,  around  a  curve,  and 
out  of  sight.  I  know  it  well,  of  course,  every 
rock  and  flower  of  it,  but  its  final  appeal  to 
me  is  not  through  its  beauty,  it  is  not  even 
through  my  sense  of  ownership  in  it;  it  is 
simply  that  it  is  a  Road  —  a  road  that  leads 
out  of  Everywhere  into  Everywhere  Else,  a 
road  that  goes  on.  About  a  road  that  ends 
there  is  no  glamour.  It  may  be  pretty  or  use 
ful,  but  as  a  road  it  is  a  failure.  For  the  Road 
is  the  symbol  of  endless  possibility.  From  the 
faintest  footpath  across  a  meadow,  where  as  a 
child  one  has  always  felt  that  some  elf  or 
gnome  may  appear,  or  along  which,  if  one 
were  to  wander  with  sufficient  negligence,  one 
might  be  led  into  the  realm  of  "  faerie  "  to  the 
broad  turnpike  which  fares  through  open 
country,  plunges  through  the  surging  cities, 
and  escapes  to  broad  lands  beyond  —  any 
path,  any  road,  makes  this  appeal.  And  so 


130  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

long  as  one  has  faith  that  what  may  be  is 
more  than  what  is,  so  long  as  one  has  the 
buoyant  patience  to  await  it  or  the  will  to  go 
forth  and  seek  it,  so  long  as  one  has  the  im 
agination  and  the  heart  of  the  wayfarer, 
the  charm  of  the  Road  will  be  potent. 


X 

The  Lure  of  the  Berry 

MEN  have  sung  the  praises  of  fishing  and 
hunting,  they  have  extolled  the  joys  of  boat 
ing  and  riding,  they  have  dwelt  at  length 
upon  the  pleasures  of  automobiling.  But 
there  is  one — sport,  shall  I  call  it? — which 
no  one  seems  to  have  thought  worth  mention 
ing  :  the  gentle  sport  of  berrying. 

Perhaps  calling  it  a  sport  is  an  unfortunate 
beginning;  it  gives  us  too  much  to  live  up  to. 
No,  it  is  not  a  sport,  though  I  can't  think  why, 
since  it  is  quite  as  active  as  drop-line  fishing. 
Perhaps  the  trouble  is  with  the  game  —  the 
fish  are  more  active  than  the  berries,  and 
their  excesses  cover  the  deficiencies  of  the 
stolid  figure  in  the  boat. 

What,  then,  shall  we  call  it?  Not  an  oc 
cupation;  it  is  too  desultory  for  that;  nor  an 
amusement,  because  of  a  certain  tradition  of 
usefulness  that  hangs  about  it.  Probably  it 
belongs  in  that  small  but  select  group  of 


132  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

things  that  people  do  ostensibly  because  they 
are  useful  but  really  because  they  are  fun. 
At  any  rate,  it  does  not  matter  how  we  class 
it,  —  it  is  just  berrying. 

But  not  strawberrying.  Strawberries  are 
so  far  down,  and  so  few!  They  cannot  be 
picked  with  comfort  by  any  one  over  six  years 
old. 

Nor  blackberrying !  Blackberries  are  good 
when  gathered  in,  but  in  the  gathering  pro 
cess  there  is  nothing  restful  or  soothing.  They 
always  grow  in  hot  places,  and  the  briers 
make  you  cross;  they  pull  your  hair  and 
"  sprout "  your  clothes  and  scratch  your  wrists. 
And  the  berries  stain  your  fingers  dark  blue, 
and,  moreover,  they  are  frequented  by  those 
unpleasant  little  triangular,  greenish-brown 
creatures  known  as  squash  bugs,  which  I  do 
not  believe  even  the  Ancient  Mariner  could 
have  been  called  upon  to  love.  No,  I  do  not 
mean  blackberrying. 

What  then?  What  indeed  but  huckleberry- 
ing!  How  can  I  adequately  sing  the  praises  of 
the  gentle,  the  neat,  the  comfortable  huckle 
berry!  No  briers,  no  squash  bugs,  no  back- 
breaking  stoop  or  arm-rending  stretch  to 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  BERRY     133 

reach  them.  Just  a  big,  bushy,  green  clump, 
full  of  glossy  black  or  softly  blue  berries,  and 
you  can  sit  right  down  on  the  tussocks  among 
them,  put  your  pail  underneath  a  bush,  and 
begin.  At  first,  the  handfuls  drop  in  with  a 
high-keyed  "plinking"  sound;  then,  when  the 
"bottom  is  covered,"  this  changes  to  a  soft 
patter  altogether  satisfactory;  and  as  you  sit 
stripping  the  crisp  branches  and  letting  the 
neat  little  balls  roll  through  your  fingers,  your 
spirit  grows  calm  within  you,  you  feel  the 
breeze,  you  look  up  now  and  then  over 
stretches  of  hill,  or  pasture,  or  sky,  and  you 
settle  into  a  state  of  complete  acquiescence 
in  things  as  they  are. 

For  there  is  always  a  breeze,  and  always  a 
view,  at  least  where  my  huckleberries  grow. 
If  any  one  should  ask  me  where  to  find  a  good 
situation  for  a  house,  I  should  answer,  with  a 
comprehensive  wave  of  my  arm,  "Oh,  choose 
any  huckleberry  patch."  Only  't  were  pity  to 
demolish  so  excellent  a  thing  as  a  huckleberry 
patch,  merely  to  erect  so  doubtful  a  thing  as  a 
house. 

I  know  one  such  —  a  royal  one  even  among 
huckleberry  patches.  To  get  to  it  you  go  up 


134  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

an  old  road,  —  up,  and  up,  and  up,  —  you 
pass  big  fields,  newmown  and  wide  open  to 
the  sky,  you  get  broader  and  broader  outlooks 
over  green  woodland  and  blue  rolling  hills, 
with  a  bit  of  azure  river  in  the  midst.  You 
come  out  on  great  flats  of  rock,  thinly  edged 
with  light  turf,  and  there  before  you  are  the 
"berry  lots,"  as  the  natives  call  them, — 
rolling,  windy  uplands,  with  nothing  bigger 
than  cedars  and  wild  cherry  trees  to  break 
their  sweep.  The  berry  bushes  crowd  together 
in  thick-set  patches,  waist-high,  interspersed 
with  big  "high-bush"  shrubs  in  clumps  or 
alone,  low,  hoary  juniper,  and  great,  dark 
masses  of  richly  glossy,  richly  fragrant  bay. 
The  pointed  cedars  stand  about  like  sentinels, 
stiff  enough  save  where  their  sensitive  tops 
lean  delicately  away  from  the  wind.  In  the 
scant  herbage  between  is  goldenrod,  the  earli 
est  and  the  latest  alike  at  home  here,  and  red 
lilies  and  asters,  and  down  close  to  the  ground, 
if  you  care  to  stoop  for  them,  trailing  vines 
of  dewberries  with  their  fruit,  the  sweetest 
of  all  the  blackberries.  Truly  it  is  a  goodly 
prospect,  and  one  to  fill  the  heart  with  satis 
faction  that  the  world  is  as  it  is. 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  BERRY    135 

The  pleasure  of  huckleberrying  is  partly  in 
the  season  —  the  late  summer-time,  from 
mid- July  to  September.  The  poignant  joys  of 
early  spring  are  passed,  and  the  exuberance  of 
early  summer,  while  the  keen  stimulus  of  fall 
has  not  yet  come.  Things  are  at  poise.  The 
haying  is  over,  the  meadows,  shorn  of  their 
rich  grass,  lie  tawny-green  under  the  sky,  and 
the  world  seems  bigger  than  before.  It  is  not 
a  time  for  dreams  nor  a  time  for  exploits;  it 
it  a  time  for  —  for  —  well,  for  berrying! 

But  you  must  choose  your  days  carefully, 
as  you  do  your  fishing  and  hunting  days. 
The  berries  "bite  best"  with  a  brisk  west 
wind,  though  a  south  one  is  not  to  be  despised, 
and  a  north  one  gives  a  pleasant  suggestion 
of  fall  while  the  sun  has  still  all  the  fervor  of 
summer.  Choose  a  sky  that  has  clouds  in  it, 
too,  for  you  will  feel  their  movement  even 
when  you  do  not  look  up.  Then  take  your 
pail  and  set  out.  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry  and  do 
not  promise  to  be  back  at  any  definite  time. 
Either  go  alone  or  with  just  the  right  com 
panion.  I  do  not  know  any  circumstances 
wherein  the  choice  of  a  companion  needs  more 
care  than  in  berrying.  It  may  make  or  mar 


136  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  whole  adventure.  For  you  must  have  a 
person  not  too  energetic,  or  a  standard  of 
speed  will  be  established  that  will  spoil  every 
thing;  nor  too  conscientious  —  it  is  madden 
ing  to  be  told  that  you  have  not  picked  the 
bushes  clean  enough;  nor  too  diligent,  so  that 
one  feels  guilty  if  one  looks  at  the  view  or 
acknowledges  the  breeze;  nor  too  restless,  so 
that  one  is  being  constantly  haled  to  fresh 
woods  and  pastures  new.  A  slightly  garrul 
ous  person  is  not  bad,  with  a  desultory,  semi- 
philosophic  bent,  and  a  gift  for  being  con 
tented  with  easy  physical  occupation.  In 
fact,  I  find  that  I  am,  by  exclusion  and  inclu 
sion,  narrowing  my  description  to  fit  a  certain 
type  of  small  boy.  And  indeed  I  believe  that 
here  the  ideal  companion  is  to  be  found,  —  if 
indeed  he  is  not,  as  I  more  than  suspect  he  is, 
the  ideal  companion  for  every  form  of  recrea 
tion  in  life.  Yes,  the  boy  is  the  thing.  Some 
of  my  choicest  hours  in  the  berry  lots  have 
been  spent  with  a  boy  as  companion,  some 
boy  who  loves  to  be  in  the  wind  and  sun  with 
out  knowing  that  he  loves  it,  who  philos 
ophizes  without  knowing  that  he  does  so,  who 
picks  berries  with  sufficient  diligence  some- 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  BERRY    137 

times,  and  with  a  delightful  irresponsibility 
at  other  times;  who  likes  to  move  on,  now 
and  then,  but  is  happy  to  kick  turf  around  the 
edges  of  the  clump  if  you  are  inclined  to  stay. 
Who  takes  pride  in  filling  his  pail,  but  is  not 
so  desperately  single-minded  that  he  is  un 
moved  by  the  seductions  of  goldenrod  in 
bloom,  of  juniper  and  bayberries,  of  dry  gold 
enrod  stalks  (for  kite  sticks),  of  deserted 
birds'  nests,  and  all  the  other  delights  that 
fall  in  his  way. 

For  berrying  does  not  consist  chiefly  in 
getting  berries,  any  more  than  fishing  con 
sists  chiefly  in  getting  fish,  or  hunting  in 
getting  birds.  The  essence  of  berrying  is  the 
state  of  mind  that  accompanies  it.  It  is 
a  semi-contemplative  recreation,  providing 
physical  quiet  with  just  enough  motion  to 
prevent  restlessness  —  being,  in  this  respect, 
like  "whittling."  I  said  semi-contemplative, 
because,  while  it  seems  to  induce  meditation, 
the  beauty  of  it  is  that  you  don't  really  med 
itate  at  all,  you  only  think  you  are  doing  so, 
or  are  going  to.  That  is  what  makes  it  so  re 
cuperative  in  its  effects.  It  just  delicately 
shaves  the  line  between  stimulating  you  to 


138  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

thought  and  boring  you  because  it  does  not 
stimulate.  Thus  it  brings  about  in  you  a  per 
fect  state  of  poise  most  restful  in  itself  and 
in  a  complete  harmony  with  the  midsummer 
season. 

Yes,  fishing  is  good,  and  hunting  is  good, 
and  all  the  sports  are  good  in  their  turn  — 
even  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  on  a  boarding- 
house  piazza  has,  perhaps,  its  charms  and  its 
benefits  for  some;  —  but  when  the  sun  is  hot 
and  the  wind  is  cool,  when  the  hay  is  in  and 
the  yellowing  fields  lie  broad,  when  the  woods 
have  gathered  their  birds  and  their  secrets  to 
their  very  hearts,  when  the  sky  is  deeply, 
warmly  blue,  and  the  clouds  pile  soft  or  float 
thin  and  light,  then  give  me  a  pail  and  let  me 
wander  up,  up,  to  the  great  open  berry  lots. 
I  will  let  the  sun  shine  on  me  and  the  wind 
blow  me,  and  I  will  love  the  whole  big 
world,  and  I  will  think  not  a  single  thought, 
and  at  sundown  I  will  come  home  with  a  full 
pail  and  a  contentedly  empty  mind. 


XI 

In  the  Rain 

IT  was  raining.  It  had  begun  to  rain  the 
afternoon  before;  it  had  rained  all  night,  with 
the  drizzling,  sozzling  kind  of  rain  that  indi 
cated  persistence.  It  had  rained  all  the  morn 
ing;  it  was  obviously  going  to  rain  all  day. 
The  hollow  beside  the  stone  hitching-post, 
where  the  grocer's  horse  and  the  butcher's 
horse  and  the  fishman's  horse  had  stamped, 
all  through  the  drought,  was  now  a  pool  of 
brown  water,  with  the  raindrops  making 
gooseflesh  on  it.  There  was  another  pond 
under  the  front  gate,  and  another  under  the 
hammock;  and  the  middle  of  the  road,  in  the 
horse  rut,  was  a  narrow  brown  brook.  The 
tiger  lilies  in  the  old  stump  were  bending  with 
their  load  of  wetness,  the  phlox  in  the  garden 
was  weighed  down  till  its  white  masses  nearly 
touched  earth.  Indoors,  when  the  wind  lulled 
and  the  rain  fell  straighter,  we  could  hear 
the  drops  tick-tick-ticking  on  the  bark  of 


140  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  birch  logs  in  the  fireplace.  This  flue  of  the 
chimney  is  almost  vertical,  with  a  slant  to  the 
southward,  and  I  have  always  liked  the  way 
it  lets  in  samples  of  the  weather  —  a  patch  of 
yellow  sunshine  on  clear  days,  a  blur  of  soft 
white  light  on  gray  ones,  and  on  stormy 
ones  flicks  of  rain  to  make  the  fire  sputter, 
or,  as  on  this  particular  day,  to  dampen 
our  kindling  if  it  has  been  laid  ready  to 
light. 

The  belated  postman's  buggy,  with  pre 
sumably  a  postman  inside  it  somewhere  be 
hind  the  sheathing  of  black  rubber,  drove  up, 
our  mail-box  grated  open  and  shut,  and  the 
streaming  horse  sloshed  on.  Jonathan  turned 
up  his  collar  and  dashed  out  to  the  box,  and 
dashed  in  again,  bringing  with  him  a  great 
gust  of  rainy  sweetness  and  the  smell  of  wet 
woolen. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  "let's  take  a  walk." 

He  was  unfolding  the  damp  newspaper 
carefully  so  as  not  to  tear  it.  "What's 
that?  Walk?" 

"That's  what  I  said." 

He  had  his  paper  open  by  this  time,  and 
was  glancing  at  the  headlines.  When  a  man 


IN  THE  RAIN  141 

is  glancing  at  headlines,  it  is  just  as  well  to  let 
him  glance.  I  gave  him  fifteen  minutes.  Then 
I  reopened  the  matter. 

"Jonathan,  I  said  walk." 

"What's  that?"  His  tone  was  vague.  It 
was  what  I  call  his  newspaper  tone.  It  sug 
gests  extreme  remoteness,  but  tolerance,  even 
benevolence,  if  he  is  let  alone.  He  drifted 
slowly  over  to  the  window  and  made  a  pre 
tense  of  looking  out,  but  his  eyes  were  still 
running  down  the  columns.  "My  dear,"  he 
remarked,  still  in  the  same  tone,  "had  you 
noticed  that  it  is  beginning  to  rain?" 

"I  noticed  that  yesterday  afternoon,  about 
three  o'clock,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
had  n't." 

"Well?  "I  waited. 

"Well — "  he  hung  fire  while  he  finished 
the  tail  of  the  editorial.  Then  he  threw  down 
the  paper.  "Don't  you  think  it's  rather  poor 
weather  for  walking?" 

This  was  what  I  had  been  waiting  for,  and 
I  responded  glibly,  "Some  one  has  said  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  bad  weather,  there  are  only 
good  clothes." 


142  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Do  you  mean  mine?"  He  grinned  down 
at  his  farm  regimentals. 
"Well,  then—" 

"Why,  of  course,  if  you  really  mean  it,"  he 
said,  and  added,  as  he  looked  out  reflectively 
at  the  puddling  road,  "You'll  get  your  hair 
wet." 

"Hope  so!  Now,  Jonathan,  aren't  you 
silly,  really?  Anybody  would  think  we'd 
never  been  for  a  walk  in  the  rain  before  in  our 
lives.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  stay  indoors  and 
be  a  tabby-cat  and  keep  dry." 

"Who  got  the  mail?" 

"You  did.  But  you  wanted  the  paper  — 
and  you  ran." 

The  fact  was,  as  I  very  well  knew,  Jonathan 
really  wanted  to  go,  but  he  did  n't  want  to 
start.  When  people  really  enjoy  doing  a 
thing,  and  mean  to  do  it,  and  yet  won't  get 
going,  something  has  to  be  done  to  get  them 
going.  That  was  why  I  spoke  of  tabby-cats. 

Jonathan  assumed  an  alert  society  tone. 
"I  should  enjoy  a  walk  very  much,  thank 
you,"  he  said;  "the  weather  seems  to  me  per 
fect.  But," he  added  abruptly,  "wear woolen; 
that  white  thing  won't  do." 


IN  THE  RAIN  143 

"Of  course!"  I  went  off  and  made  myself 
fit  —  woolen  for  warmth,  though  the  day 
was  not  cold,  a  short  khaki  skirt,  an  old 
felt  hat,  and  old  shoes.  Out  we  went  into 
the  drenched  world.  Whish!  A  gust  of  rain 
in  my  eyes  half  blinded  me,  and  I  ran 
under  the  big  maples.  I  heard  Jonathan 
chuckle.  "I  can't  help  it,"  I  gasped;  "I'll  be 
wet  enough  in  a  few  minutes,  and  then  I 
shan't  care." 

From  the  maples  I  made  for  the  lee  of  the 
barn  eaves,  disturbing  the  hens  who  were 
sulking  there.  They  stepped  ostentatiously 
out  into  the  rainy  barnyard  with  an  air  of 
pointedly  not  noticing  me,  but  of  knowing  all 
the  time  whose  fault  it  was.  They  were  n't 
liking  the  weather,  anyhow,  the  hens  were  n't, 
and  showed  it  plainly  in  the  wet,  streaky 
droop  of  their  feathers  and  the  exasperated 
look  in  their  red  eyes.  "Those  hens  look  as  if 
they  thought  I  could  do  something  about  it  if 
I  only  would,"  I  said  to  Jonathan  as  we  passed 
them. 

"Yes,  they  are  n't  a  cordial  crowd.  Here, 
we'll  show  them  how  to  take  weather!" 

We  were  passing  under  an  apple  tree;  Jona- 


144  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

than  seized  a  drooping  bough,  and  a  sheet  of 
water  shook  itself  out  on  our  shoulders.  I 
gasped  and  ducked,  and  a  hen  who  stood  too 
near  scuttered  off  with  low  duckings  of  in 
dignation. 

"Now  you're  really  wet,  you  can  enjoy 
yourself,"  said  Jonathan;  and  there  was 
something  in  it,  though  I  was  loath  to  admit 
it  at  the  moment.  A  moment  before  I  had 
felt  rather  appalled  at  the  sight  of  the  rain 
swept  lane;  now  I  hastened  on  recklessly. 

"I  think,"  said  Jonathan,  "it's  the  back  of 
my  neck  that  counts.  After  that 's  wet  I  don't 
care  what  happens." 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "that's  a  stronghold.  But 
I  think  with  me  it's  my  shoulders." 

It  did  not  really  matter  which  it  was; 
neck  and  shoulders  both  were  wet,  —  back, 
arms,  everything.  We  tramped  down  across 
the  hollow,  over  the  brook,  whose  flood  was 
backing  up  into  the  swamp  on  each  side.  I 
paused  to  look  off  across  the  huckleberry 
hillside  beyond. 

" How  the  rain  changes  everything! "  I  said. 

All  the  colors  had  freshened  and  darkened, 
and  the  blur  of  the  rain  softened  the  picture 


IN  THE  RAIN  145 

and  "brought  it  together,"  as  the  painters 
say. 

"Well,"  said  Jonathan,  "woods  or  open?" 

"Which  is  the  wettest?" 

"Woods." 

"Then  woods." 

And  we  plunged  in  under  the  big  chestnuts, 
through  a  mass  of  witch-hazel  and  birch. 

Jonathan  was  quite  right.  Woods  were  the 
wettest.  One  can  hardly  fancy  anything 
quite  so  wet.  Solid  water,  like  a  river,  is  not 
comparable,  because  it  is  all  in  one  lump; 
you  know  where  it  is,  and  you  can  get  out  of 
it  when  you  want  to.  But  here  in  the  woods 
the  water  was  everywhere,  ready  to  hurl  itself 
upon  us,  from  above,  from  beside  us,  from 
below.  Every  step,  every  motion,  drew  upon 
us  drenching  showers  of  great  drops  that  had 
been  hanging  heavily  in  the  leaves  ready  to 
break  away  at  a  touch.  Little  streamlets  of 
water  ran  from  the  drooping  edges  of  my  hat 
and  from  my  chin,  water  dashed  in  my  eyes 
and  I  blinked  it  out. 

Jonathan,  pausing  to  hold  back  a  dripping 
spray  of  blackberry,  heavy  with  fruit,  re 
marked,  "Are  n't  you  getting  a  little  damp?" 


146  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I  wonder  if  I  am!"  I  answered  joyously, 
and  plunged  on  into  the  next  thicket. 

There  is  as  much  exhilaration  in  being  out 
in  a  big  rain  and  getting  really  rained  through, 
as  there  is  in  being  out  in  surf.  It  has  nothing 
in  common  with  the  sensations  that  arise 
when,  umbrellaed  and  mackintoshed  and 
rubber-overshoed,  we  pick  our  way  gingerly 
along  the  street,  wondering  how  much  we 
can  keep  dry,  hoping  everything  is  "up"  all 
round,  wishing  the  wind  would  n't  keep  chang 
ing  and  blowing  the  umbrella  so,  and  fancying 
how  we  shall  look  when  we  "get  there."  But 
when  you  don't  care  —  when  you  want  to  get 
wet,  and  do  —  there  is  a  physical  glow  that 
is  delightful,  a  sense  of  being  washed  through 
and  through,  of  losing  one's  identity  almost, 
and  being  washed  away  into  the  great  swirl 
of  nature  where  one  does  n't  count  much,  but 
is  glad  to  be  taken  in  as  a  part.  I  fancy  this  is 
true  with  any  of  the  elements  —  earth,  air, 
water.  The  tale  of  Antaeus  was  no  mere  leg 
end;  there  is  real  strength  for  us  in  close  con 
tact  with  the  earth.  There  is  a  purifying  and 
uplifting  potency  in  the  winds,  a  potency  in 
the  waters  —  ocean  and  river  and  great  rain. 


IN  THE  RAIN  147 

Our  civilization  has  dealt  with  all  these  so 
successfully  that  we  are  apt  to  think  of  them 
as  docile  servants,  or  perhaps  as  petty  annoy 
ances,  and  we  lose  the  sense  of  their  power 
unless  we  deliberately  go  out  to  meet  them  in 
their  own  domain  and  let  them  have  their 
way  with  us.  Then,  indeed,  they  sweep  us 
out  of  ourselves  for  a  season,  and  that  is 
good. 

We  came  out  from  the  thickets  on  a  high, 
brushy  field,  sheeted  in  fine  rain  that  dimmed 
even  the  near  wood  edges.  Blackberries  grew 
thick,  and  we  made  our  way  carefully  among 
the  briers,  following  the  narrow  and  devious 
cow-paths.  Suddenly  we  both  stopped.  Just 
ahead  of  us,  under  a  blackberry  bush,  was  a 
huge  snapping-turtle.  He  was  standing  on  his 
hind  legs,  with  his  fore  legs  resting  on  a 
branch  loaded  with  fruit,  his  narrow  dark 
head  stretched  far  up  and  out,  while  he 
quietly  ate  berry  after  berry.  He  was  a  hand 
some  fellow,  with  his  big  black  shell  all  bril 
liant  in  the  wetness  of  the  rain.  As  he  worked 
we  could  see  his  under  side,  and  notice  how  it 
shaded  to  yellow  along  the  sutures.  It  was  a 
scene  of  contentment,  and  the  berries,  drip- 


148  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ping  with  fresh  raindrops,  looked  luscious  in 
deed  as  he  feasted. 

We  stood  and  watched  him  for  a  while,  and 
I  got  an  entirely  new  idea  of  turtles.  Turtles 
usually  have  too  much  reserve,  too  much  self- 
consciousness,  too  little  abandon,  and  I  had 
never  seen  one  so  "come  out  of  himself,"  lit 
erally  and  figuratively,  as  this  fellow  did.  It 
made  me  want  to  follow  up  the  acquaintance, 
this  happy  chance  of  finding  him,  so  to  speak, 
in  his  cups;  but  I  repressed  the  desire,  feeling 
that  he  might  not  share  it,  and  we  carefully 
backed  away  and  went  around  by  another 
path  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  reveler.  He  never 
knew  how  much  pleasure  he  had  given  as  well 
as  received. 

Into  the  woods  again  —  "Look  out!"  said 
Jonathan.  "Don't  step  on  the  lizards!" 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  one,  which  struck 
an  attitude  among  his  dripping  fingers  — 
sleek  back  a  little  arched,  legs  in  odd,  uncouth 
positions,  tail  set  stiffly  in  a  queer  curve.  They 
are  brilliant  little  creatures,  with  their  clear 
orange-red  coats,  scarlet-spotted,  like  a  trout. 

"Pretty  little  chap,  is  n't  he?"  said  Jona 
than. 


IN  THE  RAIN  149 

"Stylish,"  I  said,  "but  foolish.  They  never 
do  anything  that  I  can  see,  except  attitud 


inize." 


"But  they  do  a  great  deal  of  that,"  said 
Jonathan,  as  he  set  him  gently  down. 

"Come  on,"  I  said;  "I  can't  stand  here 
being  sentimental  over  your  pets.  It's  rain- 
ing." 

"  Oh,  if  you  'd  like  to  go  —  "  said  Jonathan, 
and  set  a  pace. 

I  followed  hard,  and  we  raced  down  through 
the  empty  woods,  sliding  over  the  great  wet 
rocks,  rolling  over  black  fallen  tree  trunks, 
our  feet  sinking  noiselessly  in  the  soft  leaf 
mould  of  the  forest  floor.  Out  again,  and 
through  the  edge  of  a  cornfield  where  the 
broad,  wavy  ribbon  leaves  squeaked  as  we 
thrust  them  aside,  as  only  corn  leaves  can 
squeak.  If  we  had  not  been  wet  already,  this 
would  have  finished  us.  There  is  nothing 
any  wetter  than  a  wet  cornfield. 

On  over  the  open  pastures,  with  a  grassy 
swamp  at  the  bottom.  We  tramped  care 
lessly  through  it,  not  even  looking  for  tus 
socks,  and  the  water  sucked  merrily  in  and 
out  of  our  shoes.  Into  brush  once  more — • 


150  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

thick  hazel  and  scrub  oak;  then  down  a  slope, 
and  we  were  in  the  hemlock  ravine  —  a  won 
derful  bit  of  tall  woods,  dark-shadowed,  sol 
emn,  hardly  changed  by  the  rain,  only  per 
haps  a  thought  darker  and  stiller,  with  deeper 
blue  depths  of  hazy  distance  between  the 
straight  black  trunks.  At  the  bottom  a  brook 
with  dark  pools  lying  beneath  mossy  rock 
ledges,  or  swirling  under  great  hemlock  roots, 
little  waterfalls,  and  shallow  rapids  over 
smooth-worn  rock  faces.  It  is  a  wonderful 
place,  a  place  for  a  German  fairy  tale. 

The  woods  were  empty  —  in  a  sense,  yes. 
Except  for  the  lizards,  the  animals  run  to 
cover  during  the  rain;  woodchucks,  rabbits, 
squirrels,  are  tucked  away  somewhere  out  of 
sight  and  sound.  Bird  notes  are  hushed;  the 
birds,  lurking  close-reefed  under  the  lee  of 
the  big  branches  or  the  heavy  foliage,  or  at 
the  heart  of  the  cedar  trees,  make  no  sign  as 
we  pass. 

Empty,  yet  not  lonely.  When  the  sun  is 
out  and  the  sky  is  high  and  bright,  one  feels 
that  the  world  is  a  large  place,  belonging  to 
many  creatures.  But  when  the  sky  shuts  down 
and  the  world  is  close-wrapped  in  rain  and 


IN  THE  RAIN  151 

drifting  mist,  it  seems  to  grow  smaller  and 
more  intimate.  Instead  of  feeling  the  multi- 
tudinousness  of  the  life  of  woods  and  fields, 
one  feels  its  unity.  We  are  brought  together 
in  the  bonds  of  the  rain  —  we  and  all  the 
hidden  creatures  —  we  seem  all  in  one  room 
together. 

Thus  swept  into  the  unity  of  a  dominating 
mood,  the  woods  sometimes  gain  a  voice  of 
their  own.  I  heard  it  first  on  a  stormy  night 
when  I  was  walking  along  the  wood  road  to 
meet  Jonathan.  It  was  a  night  of  wind  and 
rain  and  blackness  —  blackness  so  dense  that 
it  seemed  a  real  thing,  pressing  against  my 
eyes,  so  complete  that  at  the  fork  in  the  roads 
I  had  to  feel  with  my  hand  for  the  wheel  ruts 
in  order  to  choose  the  right  one.  As  I  grew 
accustomed  to  the  swish  of  the  rain  in  my  face 
and  the  hoarse  breath  of  the  wind  about  my 
ears  I  became  aware  of  another  sound  —  a 
background  of  tone.  I  thought  at  first  it  was 
a  child  calling,  but  no,  it  was  not  that;  it  was 
not  a  call,  but  a  song;  and  not  that  either  — 
it  was  more  like  many  voices,  high  but  not 
shrill,  and  very  far  away,  softly  intoning.  It 
was  neither  sad  nor  joyous;  it  suggested 


152  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

dreamy,  reiterant  thoughts;  it  was  not  music, 
but  the  memory  of  music.  If  one  listened  too 
keenly,  it  was  gone,  like  a  faint  star  which 
can  be  glimpsed  only  if  one  looks  a  little 
away  from  it. 

As  I  had  listened  that  night  I  began  to 
wonder  if  it  was  all  my  own  fancy,  and  when 
I  met  Jonathan  I  made  him  stop. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  I  begged  him,  "and  lis 
ten." 

"I  hear  it.  Come  on,"  he  had  said.  Supper 
was  in  his  thoughts. 

"What  do  you  hear?" 

"Just  what  you  do." 

"What's  that?"  I  had  persisted,  as  we 
fumbled  our  way  along. 

"Voices  —  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call 
it  —  the  woods.  It  often  sounds  like  that  in  a 
big  rain." 

Jonathan's  matter-of-factness  had  rather 
pleased  me. 

"I  thought  it  might  be  my  imagination. 
I'm  glad  it  was  n't,"  I  said. 

"Perhaps  it's  both  our  imaginations,"  he 
suggested. 

"No.   We  both  do  lots  of  imagining,  but 


IN  THE  RAIN  153 

it  never  overlaps.  When  it  does,  it  shows  it's 


so." 


Perhaps  I  was  not  very  clear,  but  he  seemed 
to  understand. 

Since  then  I  have  heard  it  now  and  again, 
this  singing  of  the  rain-swept  woods.  Not 
often,  for  it  is  a  capricious  thing,  or  perhaps 
I  ought  rather  to  say  I  do  not  understand  the 
manner  of  its  uprising.  Rain  alone  will  not 
bring  it  to  pass,  wind  alone  will  not,  and  some 
times  even  when  they  are  importuned  by  wind 
and  rain  together  the  woods  are  silent.  Per 
haps,  too,  it  is  not  every  stretch  of  woods  that 
can  sing,  or  at  all  seasons.  In  winter  they  can 
whistle,  and  sigh,  and  creak,  but  I  am  sure 
that  when  I  have  heard  these  singing  voices 
the  trees  have  always  had  their  full  leafage. 
But  however  it  comes  about,  I  am  glad  of  the 
times  that  I  have  heard  it.  And  whenever  I 
read  tales  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  and  all  his 
kind,  there  come  into  my  mind  as  an  inter 
preting  background  memories  of  wonderful 
black  nights  and  storm-ridden  woods  swept 
by  overtones  of  distant  and  elusive  sound. 

We  did  not  hear  the  woods  sing  that  day. 
Perhaps  there  was  not  wind  enough,  or  per- 


154  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

haps  the  woods  on  the  "home  piece"  are  not 
big  enough,  for  it  chances  that  I  have  never 
heard  the  sound  there. 

As  we  came  up  the  lane  at  dusk  we  saw  the 
glimmer  of  the  house  lights. 

"Does  n't  that  look  good?"  I  said  to  Jona 
than.  "And  won't  it  be  good  when  we  are  all 
dry  and  in  front  of  the  fire  and  you  have  your 
pipe  and  I'm  making  toast?" 

I  am  perfectly  sure  that  Jonathan  agreed 
with  me,  but  what  he  said  was,  "I  thought 
you  came  out  for  pleasure." 

"Well,  can't  I  come  home  for  pleasure 
too?  "I  asked. 


XII 
As  the  Bee  Flies 

JONATHAN  had  taken  me  to  see  the  "bee 
tree"  down  in  the  "old  John  Lane  lot." 
Judging  from  the  name,  the  spot  must  have 
been  a  clearing  at  one  time,  but  now  it  is  one 
of  the  oldest  pieces  of  woodland  in  the  local 
ity.  The  bee  tree,  a  huge  chestnut,  cut  down 
thirty  years  ago  for  its  store  of  honey,  is  sink 
ing  back  into  the  forest  floor,  but  we  could 
still  see  its  hollow  heart  and  charred  sides 
where  the  fire  had  been  made  to  smoke  out 
the  bees. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  "I'd  like  to  find  some 
wild  honey.  It  sounds  so  good." 

"No  better  than  tame  honey,"  said  Jona 
than. 

"It  sounds  better.  I'm  sure  it  would  be 
different  scooped  out  of  a  tree  like  this  than 
done  up  neatly  in  pound  squares." 

"  Tastes  just  the  same,"  persisted  Jonathan 
prosaically. 


156  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Well,  anyway,  I  want  to  find  a  bee  tree. 
Let's  go  bee-hunting!" 

"What's  the  use?  You  don't  know  a 
honeybee  from  a  bumblebee." 

"Well,  you  do,  of  course,"  I  answered, 
tactfully. 

Jonathan,  mollified,  became  gracious.  "I 
never  went  bee-hunting,  but  I've  heard  the 
old  fellows  tell  how  it 's  done.  But  it  takes  all 
day." 

"So  much  the  better,"  I  said. 

And  that  night  I  looked  through  our  books 
to  find  out  what  I  could  about  bees.  Over  the 
fireplace  in  what  was  once  the  "best  parlor" 
is  a  long,  low  cupboard  with  glass  doors.  Here 
Bibles,  albums,  and  a  few  other  books  have 
always  been  stored,  and  from  this  I  pulled 
down  a  fat,  gilt-lettered  volume  called  "The 
Household  Friend."  This  book  has  something 
to  say  about  almost  everything,  and,  sure 
enough,  it  had  an  article  on  bees.  But  the 
Household  Friend  had  obviously  never  gone 
bee-hunting,  and  the  only  real  information  I 
got  was  that  bees  had  four  wings  and  six  legs. 

"So  has  a  fly,"  said  Jonathan,  when  I  came 
to  him  with  this  nugget  of  wisdom. 


AS  THE  BEE  FLIES  157 

The  neighbors  gave  suggestions.  "You 
want  to  go  when  the  yeller-top's  in  bloom," 
said  one. 

"Yellow-top?"  I  questioned,  stupidly 
enough. 

"Yes.  Yeller-top — 't 's  in  bloom  now," 
with  a  comprehensive  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Oh,  you  mean  goldenrod!" 

"Well,  I  guess  you  call  it  that.  Yeller-top 
we  call  it.  You  find  one  o'  them  old  back 
fields  where  the  yeller-top's  come  in,  V  you'll 
see  bees  'nough." 

Another  friend  told  us  that  when  we  had 
caught  our  bee  we  must  drop  honey  on  her 
back.  This  would  send  her  to  the  hive  to  get 
her  friends  to  groom  her  off,  and  they  would 
all  return  with  her  to  see  where  the  honey 
came  from.  This  sounded  improbable,  but  we 
were  in  no  position  to  criticize  our  informa 
tion. 

As  to  the  main  points  of  procedure  all  our 
advisers  agreed.  We  were  to  put  honey  in  an 
open  box,  catch  a  bee  in  it,  and  when  she  had 
loaded  up  with  honey,  let  her  go,  watch  her 
flight  and  locate  the  direction  of  her  home. 
When  she  returned  with  friends  for  more 


158  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

honey,  we  were  to  shut  them  in,  carry  the  box 
on  in  the  line  of  flight,  and  let  them  go  again. 
We  were  to  keep  this  up  until  we  reached  the 
bee  tree.  It  sounded  simple. 

We  got  our  box  —  two  boxes,  to  be  sure  of 
our  resources  —  baited  them  with  chunks  of 
comb,  and  took  along  little  window  panes  for 
covers.  Then  we  packed  up  luncheon  and  set 
out  for  an  abandoned  pasture  in  our  woods 
where  we  remembered  the  "yeller-top"  grew 
thick.  Our  New  England  fall  mornings  are 
cool,  and  as  we  walked  up  the  shady  wood 
road  Jonathan  predicted  that  it  would  be  no 
use  to  hunt  bees.  "They'll  be  so  stiff  they 
can't  crawl.  Look  at  that  lizard,  now!"  He 
stooped  and  touched  a  little  red  newt  lying 
among  the  pebbles  of  the  roadway.  The  little 
fellow  seemed  dead,  but  when  Jonathan  held 
him  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  for  a  few  mo 
ments  he  gradually  thawed  out,  began  to 
wriggle,  and  finally  dropped  through  between 
his  fingers  and  scampered  under  a  stone. 
"See?"  said  Jonathan.  "We'll  have  to  thaw 
out  every  bee  just  that  way." 

But  I  had  confidence  that  the  sun  would 
take  the  place  of  Jonathan's  hand,  and  re- 


AS  THE  BEE  FLIES  159 

fused  to  give  up  my  hunt.  From  the  main 
log-road  we  turned  off  into  a  path,  once  a  well- 
trodden  way  to  the  old  ox  pastures,  but  now 
almost  overgrown,  and  pushed  on  through 
brier  and  sweet-fern  and  huckleberry  and 
young  birch,  down  across  a  little  brook,  and 
up  again  to  the  "old  Sharon  lot,"  a  long  field 
framed  in  big  woods  and  grown  up  to  sumac 
and  brambles  and  goldenrod.  It  was  warmer 
here,  in  the  steady  sunshine,  sheltered  from 
the  crisp  wind  by  the  tree  walls  around  us, 
and  we  began  to  look  about  hopefully  for  bees. 
At  first  Jonathan's  gloomy  prognostications 
seemed  justified  —  there  was  not  a  bee  in 
sight.  A  few  wasps  were  stirring,  trailing  their 
long  legs  as  they  flew.  Then  one  or  two  "yel 
low  jackets"  appeared, and  some  black-and- 
white  hornets.  But  as  the  field  grew  warmer 
it  grew  populous,  bumblebees  hummed,  and 
finally  some  little  soft  brown  bees  arrived 
—  surely  the  ones  we  wanted.  Cautiously 
Jonathan  approached  one,  held  his  box  under 
the  goldenrod  clump,  brought  the  glass  down 
slowly  from  above  —  and  the  bee  was  ours. 
She  was  a  gentle  little  thing,  and  did  not  seem 
to  resent  her  treatment  at  all,  but  dropped 


160  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

down  on  to  the  honeycomb  and  fell  to  work. 
Jonathan  had  providently  cut  a  three-forked 
stick,  and  he  now  stuck  this  into  the  ground 
and  set  the  box  on  the  forks  so  that  it  was 
about  on  a  level  with  the  goldenrod  tops. 
Then  he  carefully  drew  off  the  glass,  and  we 
sat  down  to  watch. 

"Should  n't  you  think  she  must  have  had 
enough?"  I  said,  after  a  while  —  "Oh!  there 
she  comes  now!" 

Our  bee  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  box, 
staggering  heavily.  She  rubbed  her  legs, 
rubbed  her  wings,  shook  herself,  girded  up 
her  loins,  as  it  were,  and  brushed  the  hair  out 
of  her  eyes,  and  finally  rose,  turning  on  her 
self  in  a  close  spiral  which  widened  into  larger 
and  larger  circles  above  the  box,  and  at 
length,  after  two  or  three  wide  sweeps  where 
we  nearly  lost  track  of  her,  she  darted  off  in  a 
"bee-line"  for  a  tall  chestnut  tree  on  a  knoll 
to  the  westward. 

"Will  she  come  back?"  we  wondered.  Five 
minutes  -  -  ten  —  fifteen  —  it  seemed  an 
hour. 

"She  must  have  been  a  drone,"  said  Jona 
than. 


AS  THE  BEE  FLIES  161 

"Or  maybe  she  was  n't  a  honeybee  at  all," 
I  suggested,  gloomily.  "  She  might  be  just  an 
other  kind  of  hornet — no,  look !  There  she  is ! " 

I  could  hardly  have  been  more  thrilled  if 
my  fairy  godmother  had  appeared  on  the 
goldenrod  stalk  and  waved  her  wand  at  me. 
To  think  that  the  bee  really  did  play  the  game ! 
I  knelt  and  peered  in  over  the  side  of  the  box. 
Yes,  there  she  was,  all  six  feet  in  the  honey, 
pumping  away  with  might  and  main  through 
her  little  red  tongue,  or  proboscis,  or  whatever 
it  was.  We  sank  back  among  the  weeds  and 
waited  for  her  to  go.  As  she  rose,  in  the  same 
spirals,  and  disappeared  westward,  Jonathan 
said,  "If  she  does  n't  bring  another  one  back 
with  her  this  time,  we'll  try  dropping  honey 
on  her  back.  You  wait  here  and  be  a  land 
mark  for  the  bee  while  I  try  to  catch  another 
one  in  the  other  box." 

I  settled  down  comfortably  under  the  yel 
low-top,  and  instantly  I  realized  what  a  pleas 
ant  thing  it  is  to  be  a  landmark.  For  one 
thing,  when  you  sit  down  in  a  field  you  get  a 
very  different  point  of  view  from  that  when 
you  stand.  Goldenrod  is  different  looked  at 
from  beneath,  with  sky  beyond  it;  sky  is  dif- 


162  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ferent  seen  through  waving  masses  of  yellow. 
Moreover,  when  you  sit  still  outdoors,  the 
life  of  things  comes  to  you;  when  you  are 
moving  yourself,  it  evades  you.  Down  among 
the  weeds  where  I  sat,  the  sun  was  hot,  but  the 
breeze  was  cool,  and  it  brought  to  me,  now 
the  scent  of  wild  grapes  from  an  old  stonewall, 
now  the  spicy  fragrance  of  little  yellow  apples 
on  a  gnarled  old  tree  in  the  fence  corner,  now 
the  sharp  tang  of  the  goldenrod  itself.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  hum  of  bees,  and  soon  I 
began  to  distinguish  their  different  tones  — 
the  deep,  rich  drone  of  the  bumblebees,  the 
higher  singsong  of  the  honeybees,  the  snarl 
of  the  yellow- jacket,  the  jerky,  nasal  twang 
of  the  black-and-white  hornet.  They  began 
to  come  close  around  me;  two  bumblebees 
hung  on  a  frond  of  goldenrod  so  close  to  my 
face  that  I  could  see  the  pollen  dust  on  their 
fur.  Crickets  and  grasshoppers  chirped  and 
trilled  beside  me.  All  the  little  creatures 
seemed  to  have  accepted  me  —  all  but  one 
black-and-white  hornet,  who  left  his  proper 
pursuits,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  to 
investigate  me.  He  buzzed  all  around  me  in 
an  insistent,  ill-bred  way  that  was  annoying. 


AS  THE  BEE  FLIES  163 

He  examined  my  neck  and  hair  with  unneces 
sary  thoroughness,  flew  away,  returned  to 
begin  all  over  again,  flew  away  and  returned 
once  more;  but  at  last  even  he  gave  up  the 
matter  and  went  off  about  his  business. 

Butterflies  came  fluttering  past  me:  —  big, 
rust-colored  ones  pointed  in  black;  pale  russet 
and  silver  ones;  dancing  little  yellow  ones; 
big  black  ones  with  blue-green  spots,  rather 
shabby  and  languid,  as  at  the  end  of  a  gay 
season.  Darning-needles  darted  back  and 
forth,  with  their  javelin-like  flight,  or  mounted 
high  by  sudden  steps,  or  lighted  near  me,  with 
that  absolute  rigidity  that  is  the  positive 
negation  of  movement.  A  flying  grasshopper 
creeping  along  through  the  tangle  at  my  feet 
rose  and  hung  flutteringly  over  one  spot,  for 
no  apparent  reason,  and  then,  for  no  better 
reason,  dropped  suddenly  and  was  still.  A  big 
cicada  with  green  head  and  rustling  wings 
worked  his  way  clumsily  among  a  pile  of  last 
year's  goldenrod  stalks,  freed  himself,  and 
whirred  away  with  the  harsh,  strident  buzz 
that  dominates  every  other  sound  while  it 
lasts,  and  when  it  ceases  makes  the  world 
seem  wonderfully  quiet. 


164,  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Our  bee  had  gone  and  come  twice  before 
Jonathan  returned.  "Hasn't  she  brought 
anybody  yet?  Well,  here  goes!"  He  took  a 
slender  stem  of  goldenrod,  smeared  it  with 
honey,  and  gently  lodged  a  drop  on  the  bee's 
back,  just  where  she  could  not  by  any  possible 
antics  get  it  off  for  herself.  When  the  little 
thing  flew  she  fairly  reeled  under  her  burden, 
tumbled  down  on  to  a  leaf,  recovered  herself, 
and  at  last  flew  off  on  her  old  line. 

"Now,  let's  go  and  cook  luncheon,"  said 
Jonathan,  "and  leave  her  to  work  it  out." 

"But  how  can  I  move?  I'm  a  land 
mark." 

"Oh,  leave  your  handkerchief.  Anything 
white  will  do." 

So  I  tied  my  handkerchief  to  a  goldenrod 
stalk,  and  we  went  back  to  the  brook.  We 
made  a  fire  on  a  flat  stone,  under  which  we 
could  hear  the  brook  running,  broiled  our  chops 
on  long,  forked  sticks,  broiled  some  "beef 
steak"  mushrooms  that  we  had  found  on  a 
chestnut  stump,  and  ended  with  water  from 
the  spring  under  the  giant  birch  tree.  Blue 
jays  came  noisily  to  investigate  us;  a  yellow- 
hammer  floated  softly  down  to  the  branch 


AS  THE  BEE   FLIES  165 

overhead,  gave  a  little  purring  cluck  of  sur 
prise,  and  flew  off  again,  with  a  flare  of  tawny- 
yellow  wings.  In  the  warmth  of  the  Indian 
summer  noon  the  shade  of  the  woods  was 
pleasant,  and  I  let  Jonathan  go  back  to  the 
bees  while  I  lay  on  a  dry  slope  above  the  brook 
and  watched  the  slim,  tall  chestnuts  swaying 
in  the  wind.  It  is  almost  like  being  at  sea  to 
lie  in  the  woods  and  look  up  at  the  trees. 
Their  waving  tops  seem  infinitely  far  away, 
but  the  sky  beyond  seems  very  near,  and  one 
can  almost  feel  the  earth  go  round. 

As  I  lay  there  I  heard  a  snapping  of  twigs 
and  rustling  of  leaves.  It  was  the  wrong  direc 
tion  for  Jonathan,  and  I  turned  gently,  expect 
ing  nothing  smaller  than  a  deer  —  for  deer 
are  growing  plentiful  now  in  old  New  England 
—  and  met  the  shameless  face  of  a  jerky  little 
red  squirrel!  He  clung  to  a  chestnut  trunk 
and  examined  me,  twitching  all  over  the  while, 
then  whisked  himself  upside  down  and  looked 
at  me  from  that  standpoint,  mounted  to  a 
branch,  clung  to  the  under  side  and  looked 
again,  pretended  fright  and  vanished  behind 
the  limb,  only  to  peer  over  it  the  next  moment 
to  see  what  I  looked  like  from  there  —  all  the 


166  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

time  clucking  and  burring  like  an  alarm  clock 
under  a  pillow. 

The  rude  thing  had  broken  the  spell  of 
quiet,  and  I  got  up,  remembering  the  bees, 
and  wandered  back  to  the  sunny  field,  now 
palpitating  with  waves  of  heat.  Jonathan  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  as  I  approached  the 
box  I  discovered  him  beside  it  flat  on  his  back 
among  the  weeds. 

"Sh-h-h,"  he  warned,  "don't  frighten  them. 
There  were  a  lot  of  them  when  I  got  here  and 
I've  been  watching  their  line.  They  all  go 
straight  for  that  chestnut." 

"What  are  you  lying  down  for?"  I  asked. 

"I  had  to.  I  nearly  twisted  my  neck  off 
following  their  circles.  I'm  no  owl." 

I  sat  down  near  by  and  we  watched  a  few 
more  go,  while  others  began  to  arrive. 

"That  dab  of  honey  did  the  work,"  said 
Jonathan.  "We  might  as  well  begin  to  follow 
up  their  line  now." 

Waiting  till  there  were  a  dozen  or  more  in 
the  box,  he  gently  slid  on  the  glass  cover,  laid 
a  paper  over  it  to  darken  it,  and  we  set  out. 
Ten  minutes'  walking  brought  us  past  the  big 
chestnut  and  out  to  a  little  clearing.  Jonathan 


AS  THE  BEE   FLIES  167 

set  the  box  down  on  a  big  rock  where  it  would 
show  up  well,  laid  a  handkerchief  beside  it, 
drew  off  the  glass,  and  crouched.  A  bunch  of 
excited  bees  burst  out  and  away,  without 
noticing  their  change  of  place.  "  They  '11  never 
find  their  way  back  there,"  said  Jonathan 
regretfully;  "they'll  go  straight  back  to  the 
Sharon  lot." 

But  there  were  others  in  the  box,  still  feed 
ing,  who  had  not  been  disturbed  by  the  move, 
and  these  he  touched  with  honey  drops.  They 
staggered  off,  one  by  one,  orienting  them 
selves  properly  as  they  rose,  and  taking  the 
same  old  line  off  to  the  westward.  This  was 
disappointing.  We  had  hoped  to  see  them 
turn  back,  showing  that  we  had  passed  their 
home  tree.  However,  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  sit  and  wait  for  them.  In  six  minutes  they 
began  to  come  back,  in  twos  and  threes  — 
evidently  the  honey  drops  on  their  shoulders 
had  told  the  hive  a  sufficiently  alluring  story. 
Again  we  waited  until  the  box  was  well  filled 
with  them,  then  closed  it  and  went  on  west 
ward.  Two  more  moves  brought  us  to  a  half- 
cleared  ridge  from  which  we  could  see  out 
across  country.  To  the  westward,  and  sadly 


168  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

near,  was  the  end  of  the  big  woods  and  the 
beginning  of  pastures  and  farmland. 

Jonathan  scrutinized  the  farms  dotting  the 
slopes.  "See  that  bunch  of  red  barns  with  a 
white  house?"  he  said.  "That's  Bill  More- 
head's.  He  keeps  bees.  Bet  we've  got  bees 
from  his  hive  and  they'll  lead  us  plumb  into 
his  back  yard." 

It  did  begin  to  seem  probable,  and  we  took 
up  our  box  in  some  depression  of  spirits.  Two 
more  stops,  the  bees  still  perversely  flying 
westward,  and  we  emerged  in  pastures. 

"Here's  our  last  stop,"  said  Jonathan.  "If 
they  don't  go  back  into  that  edge  we've  just 
left,  they  're  Morehead's.  There  is  n't  another 
bit  of  woods  big  enough  to  hold  a  bee  tree  for 
seven  miles  to  the  west  of  us." 

There  was  no  rock  to  set  the  box  on,  so  we 
lay  down  on  the  turf;  Jonathan  set  the  box 
on  his  chest,  and  partly  slid  the  cover.  He 
had  by  this  time  learned  the  trick  of  making 
the  bees,  even  the  excited  ones,  come  out 
singly.  We  watched  each  one  as  she  escaped 
circle  above  us,  circle,  circle  against  the  clear 
blue  of  the  afternoon  sky,  then  dart  off  — 
alas !  —  westward.  As  the  last  one  flew  we 


AS  THE  BEE  FLIES  169 

sat  up,  disconsolately,  and  gazed  across  the 
pasture. 

"Tame  bees ! "  muttered  Jonathan,  in  a  tone 
of  grief  and  disgust.  "Tame  bees,  down  there 
in  my  old  woodlots.  It 's  trespass !" 

"You  might  claim  some  of  Morehead's 
honey,"  I  suggested,  "since  you've  been 
feeding  his  bees.  But,  then,"  I  reflected,  "it 
would  n't  be  wild  honey,  and  what  I  wanted 
was  wild  honey." 

We  rose  dejectedly,  and  Jonathan  picked 
up  the  box.  "Are  n't  you  going  to  leave  it  for 
the  bees?"  I  asked.  "They'll  be  so  disap 
pointed  when  they  come  back." 

"They  aren't  the  only  ones  to  be  disap 
pointed,"  he  remarked  grimly.  "Here,  we'll 
have  mushrooms  for  supper,  anyway."  And 
he  stooped  to  collect  a  big  puff-ball. 

We  walked  home,  our  spirits  gradually 
rising.  After  all,  it  is  hard  to  stay  depressed 
under  a  blue  fall  sky,  with  a  crisp  wind  blow 
ing  in  your  face  and  the  sense  of  complete 
ness  that  comes  of  a  long  day  out  of  doors. 
And  as  we  climbed  the  last  long  hill  to  the 
home  farm  we  could  not  help  feeling  cheer 
ful. 


170  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Bee-hunting  is  fun,"  I  said,  "even  if  they 
are  tame  bees." 

"It's  the  best  excuse  for  being  a  loafer  that 
I've  found  yet,"  said  Jonathan;  "I  wonder 
the  tramps  don't  all  go  into  the  business." 

"And  some  day,"  I  pursued  hopefully, 
"we'll  go  again  and  find  really  wild  bees  and 
really  wild  honey." 

"It  would  taste  just  the  same,  you  know," 
jeered  Jonathan. 

And  I  was  so  content  with  life  that  I  let 
him  have  the  last  word. 


xm 

A  Dawn  Experiment 

I  HAVE  tried  dawn  fishing,  and  found  it  want 
ing.  I  have  tried  dawn  hunting  in  the  woods, 
after  "partridges,"  and  found  it  not  all  that 
Jonathan,  in  his  buoyant  enthusiasm,  appears 
to  think  it.  And  so,  when  he  grew  eloquent 
regarding  the  delights  of  dawn  hunting  on  the 
marshes,  I  was  not  easily  fired.  I  even  referred, 
though  very  considerately,  to  some  of  our 
previous  experiences  in  affairs  of  this  nature, 
and  confessed  a  certain  reluctance  to  experi 
ment  further  along  these  lines. 

"Well,  you  have  had  a  run  of  hard  luck," 
he  admitted  tolerantly,  "but  you'll  find  the 
plover-shooting  different.  I  know  you  won't 
be  sorry." 

I  do  not  mean  to  be  narrow  or  prejudiced, 
and  so  I  consented,  though  rather  hesitat 
ingly,  to  try  one  more  dawn  adventure. 

We  packed  up  our  guns,  ammunition,  extra 
wraps,  rubber  boots,  and  alarm  clock.  These 


172  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

five  things  are  essential  —  nay,  six  are  neces 
sary  to  real  content,  and  the  sixth  is  a  bottle 
of  tar  and  sweet  oil.  But  of  that  more  anon. 

Thus  equipped,  we  went  down  to  a  tiny 
cottage  on  the  shore.  We  reached  the  village 
at  dusk,  stopped  at  "the  store"  to  buy  bread 
and  butter  and  fruit,  then  went  on  to  the 
little  white  house  that  we  knew  would  always 
be  ready  to  receive  us.  It  has  served  us  as  a 
hunting-lodge  many  times  before,  and  has 
always  treated  us  well. 

There  is  something  very  pleasant  about 
going  back  to  a  well-known  place  of  this  sort. 
It  offers  the  joy  of  home  and  the  joy  of  camp 
ing,  the  charm  of  strangeness  and  the  charm 
of  familiarity.  We  light  the  candles  and  look 
about.  Ah,  yes!  There  are  the  magazines  we 
left  last  winter  when  we  came  down  for  the 
duck-shooting,  there  is  the  bottle  of  ink  we  got 
to  fill  our  pens  one  stormy  day  last  spring  in 
the  trout  season,  when  the  downpour  quenched 
the  zeal  even  of  Jonathan.  In  the  pantry  are 
the  jars  of  sugar  and  salt  and  cereals  and  tea 
and  coffee  and  bacon;  in  the  kitchen  are  the 
oil  stoves  ready  to  light;  in  the  dining-room 
are  the  ashes  of  our  last  fire. 


A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT  173 

Contentedly  I  set  about  making  tea  and 
arranging  the  supper-table,  while  Jonathan 
took  a  basket  and  pitcher  and  went  off  to  a 
neighbor  for  eggs  and  milk.  We  made  a  fire 
on  the  hearth,  toasted  bread  over  the  embers, 
and  supped  frugally  but  very  cozily. 

Afterwards  came  the  setting  of  the  alarm 
clock  —  a  matter  of  critical  importance. 

"What  hour  shall  it  be?"  inquired  Jona 
than,  his  finger  on  the  regulator. 

"Whenever  you  think  best,"  I  answered 
cheerfully. 

Now,  as  we  both  understood,  I  had  no  real 
intention  of  being  literally  guided  by  what 
Jonathan  thought  best,  —  that  would  have 
been  too  rash,  —  but  it  opened  negotiations 
pleasantly  to  say  so. 

Jonathan,  trying  to  be  obliging  against  his 
better  judgment,  suggested,  "Well  —  six 
o'clock?" 

But  I  refused  any  such  tremendous  conces 
sion,  knowing  that  I  should  have  to  bear  the 
ignominy  of  it  if  the  adventure  proved  unfor 
tunate.  "No,  of  course  not.  Six  is  much  too 
late.  Anybody  can  get  up  at  six." 

"Well,  then,"  he  brightened;  "say  five?" 


174  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Five,"  I  meditated.  "No,  it's  quite  light 
at  five.  We  ought  to  be  out  there  at  daylight, 
you  said." 

Jonathan  visibly  expanded.  He  realized 
that  I  was  behaving  very  well.  I  thought  so 
myself,  and  it  made  us  both  very  amiable. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "we  ought  to  be,  of 
course.  And  it  will  take  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  to  drive  out  there.  Add  fifteen  minutes 
to  that  for  breakfast,  and  fifteen  minutes  to 
dress  —  would  a  quarter  to  four  be  too  out 
rageous?" 

"Oh,  make  it  half-past  three,"  I  rejoined 
recklessly,  in  a  burst  of  self-sacrifice. 

At  least  I  would  not  spoke  our  wheels  by 
slothfulness.  The  clock  was  set  accordingly, 
and  I  went  to  sleep  enveloped  in  virtue  as  in 
a  garment,  the  sound  of  the  sea  in  my  ears. 

Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r !  What  has  happened? 
Oh,  the  alarm  clock!  It  can't  be  more  than 
twelve  o'clock.  I  hear  the  spit  of  a  match, 
then  "Half-past  three,"  from  Jonathan. 
"No!"  I  protest.  "Yes,"  he  persists,  and 
though  his  voice  is  still  veiled  in  sleep,  I  de 
tect  in  it  a  firmness  to  which  I  foresee  I  shall 


A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT  175 

yield.  My  virtue  of  last  night  has  faded  com 
pletely,  but  his  zeal  is  fast  colors.  I  am  ready 
to  back  out,  but,  dimly  remembering  my 
Spartan  attitude  of  the  night  before,  I  don't 
dare.  Thus  are  we  enslaved  by  our  virtues. 
I  submit,  with  only  one  word  of  comment  — 
"And  we  call  this  pleasure!"  To  which  Jona 
than  wisely  makes  no  response. 

We  groped  our  way  downstairs,  lighted 
another  candle,  and  sleepily  devoured  some 
sandwiches  and  milk — a  necessary  but  cheer 
less  process,  with  all  the  coziness  of  the  night 
before  conspicuously  left  out.  We  heard  the 
carriage  being  brought  up  outside,  we  snatched 
up  our  wraps,  —  sweaters,  shawls,  coats,  — 
Jonathan  picked  up  the  valise  with  the  hunt 
ing  equipment,  we  blew  out  the  candles,  and 
went  out  into  the  chilly  darkness.  As  our  eyes 
became  accustomed  to  the  change,  we  per 
ceived  that  the  sky  was  not  quite  black,  but 
gray,  and  that  the  stars  were  fewer  than  in  the 
real  night.  We  got  in,  tucked  ourselves  up 
snugly,  and  started  off  down  the  road  stretch 
ing  faintly  before  us.  The  horse's  steps 
sounded  very  loud,  and  echoed  curiously 
against  the  silent  houses  as  we  passed.  As  we 


176  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

went  on,  the  sky  grew  paler,  here  and  there 
in  the  houses  a  candle  gleamed,  in  the  barn 
yards  a  lantern  flashed  —  the  farmer  was 
astir.  Yes,  dawn  was  really  coming. 

After  a  few  miles  we  turned  off  the  main 
highway  to  take  the  rut  road  through  the  great 
marsh.  The  smell  of  the  salt  flats  was  about 
us,  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  was  growing 
more  clear  again.  A  big  bird  whirred  off  from 
the  marsh  close  beside  us.  "Meadowlark," 
murmured  Jonathan.  Another  little  one,  with 
silent,  low  flight,  then  more.  "Sandpipers," 
he  commented;  "we  don't  want  them."  The 
patient  horse  plodded  along,  now  in  damp 
marsh  soil,  now  in  dry,  deep  sand,  to  the  hitch- 
ing-place  by  an  old  barn  on  the  cliff. 

As  we  pulled  up,  Jonathan  took  a  little 
bottle  out  of  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  me. 
"Better  put  it  on  now,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?  "I  asked. 

"Tar  and  sweet  oil  —  for  the  mosquitoes." 

I  smelled  of  it  with  suspicion.  It  was  a  dark, 
gummy  liquid.  "I  think  I  prefer  the  mosqui 
toes." 

"You  do!"  said  Jonathan.  "You'll  think 
again  pretty  soon.  Here,  let  me  have  it."  He 


A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT  177 

had  tied  the  horse  and  blanketed  him,  and 
now  proceeded  to  smear  himself  with  the  stuff 
—  face,  neck,  hands.  "You  need  n't  look  at 
me  that  way!"  he  remarked  genially;  "you'll 
be  doing  it  yourself  soon.  Just  wait." 

We  took  our  guns  and  cartridges,  and 
plunged  down  from  the  cliff  to  the  marsh.  As 
we  did  so  there  rose  about  me  a  brown  cloud, 
which  in  a  moment  I  realized  was  composed 
of  mosquitoes  — a  crazy,  savage,  bloodthirsty 
mob.  They  beset  me  on  all  sides,  —  they  were 
in  my  hair,  my  eyes,  nose,  ears,  mouth,  neck. 
I  brushed  frantically  at  them,  but  a  drowning 
man  might  as  well  try  to  brush  back  the  water 
as  it  closes  in. 

"Where's  the  bottle?"  I  gasped. 

"What  bottle?"  said  Jonathan,  innocently. 
Jonathan  is  human. 

"The  tar  and  sweet  oil.  Quick!" 

"Oh!  I  thought  you  preferred  the  mosqui 
toes."  Yes,  Jonathan  is  human. 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought!"  and  I 
snatched  greedily  at  the  blessed  little  bottle. 

I  poured  the  horrid  stuff  on  my  face,  my 
neck,  my  hands,  I  out-Jonathaned  Jonathan; 
then  I  took  a  deep  breath  of  relief  as  the  mos- 


178  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

quito  mob  withdrew  to  a  respectful  distance. 
Jonathan  reached  for  the  bottle. 

"Oh,  I  can  just  as  well  carry  it,"  I  said, 
and  tucked  it  into  one  of  my  hunting-coat 
pockets. 

Jonathan  chuckled  gently,  but  I  did  not 
care.  Nothing  should  part  me  from  that  little 
bottle  of  ill-smelling  stuff. 

We  started  on  again,  out  across  the  marsh. 
Enough  light  had  come  to  show  us  the  gray- 
green  level,  full  of  mists  and  little  glimmers 
of  water,  and  dotted  with  low  haycocks,  their 
dull,  tawny  yellow  showing  softly  in  the  faint 
dawn  light. 

"Hark!"  said  Jonathan. 

We  paused.  Through  the  fog  came  a  faint, 
whistling  call,  in  descending  half-tones,  inde 
scribable,  coming  out  of  nowhere,  sounding 
now  close  beside  us,  now  very  far  away. 

"Yellowlegs,"  said  Jonathan.  "We  are  n't 
a  bit  too  soon." 

We  pushed  out  into  the  midst  of  the  marsh, 
now  sinking  knee-deep  in  the  spongy  bed,  now 
walking  easily  on  a  stretch  of  firm  turf,  now 
stepping  carefully  over  a  boundary  ditch  of 
unknown  depth  —  out  to  the  haycocks,  where 


A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT  179 

we  sank  down,  each  beside  one,  to  wait  for 
the  birds  to  move. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  waited.  The 
haycock  was  warm,  the  night  wind  had  fallen, 
the  gray  sky  was  turning  white,  with  prim 
rose  tones  in  the  east;  the  morning  star  paled 
and  disappeared;  the  marsh  mists  partly 
lifted,  and  revealed  far  inland  the  soft,  dark 
masses  of  encircling  woods.  And  every  little 
while  came  the  whistling  call,  plaintive,  yet 
curiously  hurried,  coming  from  nowhere.  I 
lay  back  against  the  hay,  and,  contrary  to 
orders,  I  let  my  gun  slip  down  beside  me.  The 
fact  was,  I  had  half  forgotten  that  anything 
definite  was  expected  of  me,  and  when  sud 
denly  I  heard  a  warning  "Lookout!"  from 
Jonathan's  mow,  I  was  in  no  way  prepared. 
There  was  a  rush  of  wings ;  the  air  was  full  of 
the  whistling  notes  of  the  birds  as  they  flew; 
they  passed  over  us,  circling,  rising,  sinking, 
sweeping  far  up  the  marsh,  then,  as  Jonathan 
whistled  their  call,  circling  back  again  out  of 
the  mist  at  incredible  speed. 

Probably  it  would  have  made  no  difference 
if  I  had  been  prepared.  A  new  kind  of  game 
always  leaves  me  dazed,  and  now  I  watched 


180  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

them,  spellbound,  until  I  heard  Jonathan 
shoot.  Then  I  made  a  great  effort,  pulled  at 
my  trigger,  and  rolled  backwards  from  my 
haycock  into  the  spongy  swamp,  inches  deep 
with  water  just  there. 

Jonathan  called  across  softly,  "Shot  both 
barrels,  did  n't  you?" 

I  rose  slowly,  wishing  there  were  some  way 
of  wringing  out  my  entire  back.  "Of  course 
not!"  I  gasped  indignantly. 

"Think  not?"  very  benevolently  from  the 
other  cock.  "  'T  would  n't  have  kicked  like 
that  if  you  had  n't.  Look  at  your  gun  and 


see." 


I  reseated  myself  damply  upon  the  hay 
cock.  "  I  tell  you  I  did  n't.  Why  should  I  shoot 
both  at  once,  I'd  like  to  know!  I — never— 

Here  I  stopped,  for  as  I  broke  open  my  gun 
I  saw  two  dented  cartridges,  and  as  I  pulled 
them  out  white  smoke  rolled  from  both  bar 
rels.  There  seemed  nothing  further  to  be  said, 
at  least  by  a  woman,  so  I  said  nothing.  Jona 
than  also,  though  human,  said  nothing.  It  is 
crises  like  these  that  test  character.  I  turned 
my  cool  back  to  the  east,  that  the  rising  sun, 
if  it  ever  really  got  thoroughly  risen,  might 


A  DAWN  EXPERIMENT  181 

warm  it,  and  grimly  reloaded.  Jonathan  con 
tinued  his  call  to  the  birds,  and  when  they 
returned  again  I  behaved  better. 

By  seven  o'clock  the  birds  had  scattered, 
and  we  left  our  places  to  go  back  to  the  horse. 
On  the  way  we  encountered  two  hunters 
wandering  rather  disconsolately  over  the 
marsh.  They  stopped  us  to  ask  what  luck, 
and  we  tried  not  to  look  too  self-satisfied,  but 
probably  they  read  our  success  in  our  arro 
gant  faces,  streaked  with  tar  and  sweet  oil  as 
they  were.  Possibly  the  bulge  of  our  hunting- 
coat  pockets  helped  to  tell  the  story. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  here?"  they 
asked  enviously. 

"Two  hours  or  so,"  said  Jonathan. 

"How'd  you  get  out  so  early?" 

"We  got  up  early,"  said  Jonathan,  with 
admirable  simplicity. 

The  strangers  looked  at  him  twice  to  see  if 
he  meant  to  jeer,  but  he  appeared  impenetra 
bly  innocent,  and  they  finally  laughed,  a  little 
ruefully,  and  went  on  out  into  the  marsh  we 
were  just  leaving.  Why  does  it  make  one  feel 
so  immeasurably  superior  to  get  up  a  few 
hours  before  other  people? 


182  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

We  drove  home  along  the  sunny  road, 
where  the  bakers'  carts  and  meat  wagons 
were  already  astir.  Could  it  be  the  same  road 
that  a  few  hours  before  had  been  so  cold  and 
gray  and  still?  Were  these  bare  white  houses 
the  same  that  had  nestled  so  cozily  into  the 
dark  of  the  roadside?  We  reached  our  own 
plain  little  white  house  and  went  in.  In  the 
dining-room  our  candles  and  the  remains  of 
our  midnight  breakfast  on  the  table  seemed 
like  relics  of  some  previous  state  of  existence. 
Sleepily  I  set  things  in  order  for  a  real  break 
fast,  a  hot  breakfast,  a  breakfast  that  should 
be  cozy.  Drowsily  we  ate,  but  contentedly. 
Everything  since  the  night  before  seemed  like 
a  dream. 

It  still  seems  so.  But  of  all  the  dream  the 
most  vivid  part  —  more  vivid  even  than  the 
alarm  clock,  more  real  than  my  tumble  into 
wetness  —  is  the  vision  that  remains  with  me 
of  mist-swept  marsh,  all  gray  and  green  and 
yellow,  with  tawny  haycocks  and  glimmer 
ings  of  water  and  whirrings  of  wings  and  whis 
tling  bird  notes  and  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea. 

Yes,  Jonathan  was  right.  Dawn  hunting 
on  the  marshes  is  different,  quite  different. 


XIV 

In  the  Wake  of  the  Partridge 

"The  kangaroo  ran  very  fast, 

I  ran  faster. 
The  kangaroo  was  very  fat, 

I  ate  him. 
Kangaroo!  Kangaroo!" 

THIS,  the  hunting-song  of  the  Australian 
Bushman,  is  the  best  one  I  know.  Without 
disguise  or  adornment,  it  embodies  the  prim 
itive  hunting  instinct  that  is  in  every  one  of 
us,  whether  we  hunt  people  or  animals  or 
things  or  ideas. 

Jonathan  and  I  do  not  habitually  hunt 
kangaroos,  and  our  hunting,  or  at  any  rate 
my  share  in  it,  is  not  as  uniformly  successful 
as  the  Bushman's  seems  to  have  been.  For 
our  own  uses  we  should  have  to  amend  the  song 
something  as  follows:  — 

"The  partridge-bird  flew  very  fast, 

I  missed  him. 
The  partridge-bird  was  very  fat, 

I  ate  —  chicken. 
Partridge-bird!  Partridge-bird!" 

But  we  do  not  measure  the  success  of  our 


184  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

hunting  by  the  size  of  our  bag.  The  chase, 
the  day  out  of  doors,  two  or  three  birds  at  the 
most  out  of  the  dozen  we  flush,  this  is  all  that 
we  ask.  But  then,  we  have  a  chicken-yard 
to  fall  back  upon,  which  the  Bushman  had  not. 
We  sit  before  a  blazing  open  fire,  eating 
a  hunter's  breakfast  —  which  means,  nearly 
everything  in  the  pantry.  Coffee  and  toast  are 
all  very  well  for  ordinary  purposes,  but  they 
are  poor  things  to  carry  you  through  a  day's 
hunting,  especially  our  kind  of  hunting.  For 
a  day's  hunt  with  us  is  not  an  elaborate  and 
well-planned  affair.  It  does  not  mean  a  pre 
arranged  course  over  "preserved"  territory, 
with  a  rendezvous  at  noon  where  the  luncheon 
wagon  comes,  bringing  out  vast  quantities  of 
food,  and  taking  home  the  morning's  bag  of 
game.  It  means  a  day's  hunt  that  follows 
whither  the  birds  lead,  in  a  section  of  New 
England  that  is  considered  "hunted  out," 
over  ground  sometimes  familiar,  sometimes 
wholly  new,  with  no  luncheon  but  a  few 
crackers  or  a  sandwich  that  has  been  stowed 
away  in  one  of  Jonathan's  game  pockets  all 
the  morning,  and  perhaps  an  apple  or  two, 
picked  up  in  passing,  from  some  old  orchard 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE     185 

now  submerged  in  the  woods  —  a  hunt  ending 
only  when  it  is  too  dark  to  shoot,  with  per 
haps  a  long  tramp  home  again  after  that.  No, 
coffee  and  toast  would  never  do! 

As  we  turn  out  of  the  sheltered  barnyard 
through  the  bars  and  up  the  farm  lane,  the 
keen  wind  flings  at  us,  and  our  numb  fingers 
recoil  from  the  metal  of  our  guns  and  take  a 
careful  grip  on  the  wood.  At  once  we  fall  to 
discussing  the  vital  question  -  -  Where  will 
the  birds  be  to-day?  For  the  partridges,  as 
the  New  Englander  calls  our  ruffed  grouse, 
are  very  fastidious  about  where  they  spend 
their  days.  Sometimes  they  are  all  in  the 
swamps,  sometimes  they  are  among  the  white 
birches  of  the  hillsides,  sometimes  in  the  big 
woods,  sometimes  on  the  half-wooded  rock 
ledges,  sometimes  among  the  scrub  growth  of 
lately  cut  timberland,  and  sometimes,  in  very 
cold  weather,  on  the  dry  knolls  where  the 
cedars  huddle  —  the  warm  little  brooding 
cedars  that  give  the  birds  shelter  as  a  hen 
does  her  chicks. 

When  I  first  began  to  hunt  with  Jonathan, 
he  knew  so  much  more  than  I  in  these  matters 
that  I  always  accepted  his  judgment.  If  he 


186  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

said,  "To-day  they  will  be  in  the  swamps,"  I 
responded,  "To  the  swamps  let  us  go."  But 
after  a  time  I  came  to  have  opinions  of  my 
own,  and  then  the  era  of  discussion  set  in. 

"To-day,"  begins  Jonathan  judicially, 
"the  wind  is  north,  and  the  birds  will  be  on 
the  south  slopes  close  to  the  swamp  bottoms 
to  keep  warm." 

"Now,  Jonathan,  you  know  I  don't  a  bit 
believe  in  going  by  the  wind.  The  partridges 
don't  mind  wind,  their  feathers  shed  it.  What 
they  care  about  is  the  sun,  and  to-day  the  sun 
is  hot, — at  least,"  with  a  shiver,  "it  would 
be  if  we  had  feathers  on  instead  of  canvas. 
I  believe  we  shall  find  them  in  the  big 
woods." 

I  usually  advocate  the  big  woods,  because 
I  like  them  best  for  a  tramp. 

Jonathan,  too  well  content  at  the  prospect 
of  a  day's  hunt  to  mind  contradiction,  says 
genially,  "All  right;  I'll  go  wherever  you 
say." 

Which  always  reduces  me  to  terms  at  once. 
Above  all  things,  I  dislike  to  make  myself  an 
swerable  for  the  success  or  failure  of  the  day. 
I  prefer  irresponsible  criticism  beforehand  — 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    187 

and  afterwards.  Sol  say  hastily,  "Oh,  no,  no! 
Of  course  you  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
do.  We  '11  go  wherever  you  think  best." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is  too  warm  for  the 
swamps  to-day.  Now,  they  might  be  in  the 
birches." 

"Oh,  dear!  Don't  let's  go  to  the  birches! 
The  birds  can't  be  there.   They  never  are." 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  go  where  I 
thought  best." 

"  Yes — but  only  not  to  the  birches.  It 's  all 
a  private  myth  of  yours  about  their  being 
there." 

"Is  it  a  private  myth  of  mine  that  you  shot 
those  two  woodcock  in  the  birches  of  the 
upper  farm  last  year?  And  how  about  that 
big  gray  partridge  — " 

"Well  —  of  course  —  that  was  later  in  the 
season.  I  suppose  the  birds  do  eat  birch  buds 
when  everything  else  gives  out." 

And  so  I  criticize,  having  agreed  not  to. 
But  it's  good  for  Jonathan;  it  makes  him 
careful. 

"Well,  shall  it  be  the  swamp?" 

"No;  if  you  really  think  they're  in  the 
birches,  we'll  go  there.  Besides,  the  swamp 


188  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

seems  a  little  —  chilly  —  to  begin  with.  Wait 
till  I've  seen  a  bird.  Then  I  shan't  mind  so." 

"Then  you  do  admit  it's  a  cool  morning?" 

"To  paddle  in  a  swamp,  yes.  The  birds 
don't  have  to  paddle." 

We  try  the  birches,  and  the  pretty  things 
whip  our  faces  with  their  slender  twigs  in  their 
own  inimitable  fashion,  peculiarly  trying  to 
my  temper.  I  can  never  go  through  birches 
long  without  growing  captious. 

"Jonathan,"  I  call,  as  I  catch  a  glimpse  of 
his  hunting-coat  through  an  opening,  "I 
thought  the  birds  were  in  the  birches  this 
morning.  They  don't  seem  really  abundant." 

Jonathan,  unruffled,  suggests  that  I  go 
along  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  while  he  beats 
out  the  middle  with  the  dog,  which  magnan 
imous  offer  shames  me  into  silent  if  not 
cheerful  acquiescence.  Suddenly — whr-r-r  — 
something  bursts  away  in  the  brush  ahead  of 
us.  "Mark!"  we  both  call,  and,  "Did  you 
get  his  line?"  My  critical  spirit  is  stilled,  and 
I  am  suddenly  fired  with  the  instinct  to  fol 
low,  follow!  It  is  indeed  a  primitive  instinct, 
this  of  the  chase.  No  matter  how  tired  one  is, 
the  impulse  of  pursuit  is  there.  At  the  close  of 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    189 

a  long  day's  hunt,  after  fifteen  miles  or  so  of 
hard  tramping, — equal  to  twice  that  of  easy 
walking,  —  when  my  feet  are  heavy  and  my 
head  dull,  I  have  never  seen  a  partridge  fly 
without  feeling  ready,  eager,  to  follow  any 
where. 

After  we  move  the  first  bird,  it  is  follow 
my  leader!  And  a  wild  leader  he  is.  Flushed 
in  the  birches,  he  makes  straight  for  the 
swamp.  The  swamp  it  is,  then,  and  down  we 
go  after  him,  and  in  we  go — ugh!  how  shivery 
the  first  plunge  is  —  straight  to  the  puddly 
heart  of  it,  carefully  keeping  our  direction. 
We  go  fast  at  first,  then,  when  we  have  nearly 
covered  the  distance  a  partridge  usually  flies, 
we  begin  to  slow  down,  holding  back  the  too 
eager  dog,  listening  for  the  snap  of  a  twig  or 
the  sound  of  wings,  gripping  our  guns  tighter 
at  every  blue  jay  or  robin  that  flicks  across 
our  path.  No  bird  yet;  we  must  have  passed 
him;  perhaps  we  went  too  far  to  the  left.  But 
no  —  whr-r-r!  Where  is  he?  There!  Out  of 
the  top  of  a  tall  swamp  maple,  off  he  goes, 
sailing  over  the  swamp  to  the  ridge  beyond. 
No  wonder  the  dog  was  at  sea.  Well  —  we 
know  his  line,  we  are  off  again  after  him  in 


190  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

spite  of  the  swamp  between,  with  its  mud  and 
its  rotten  tree  trunks  and  its  grapevines  and 
its  cat  briers. 

Up  on  the  ridge  at  last,  we  hunt  close,  find 
him,  get  a  shot,  probably  miss,  and  away  we 
go  again.  Some  hunters,  used  to  a  country 
where  game  is  plenty,  will  not  follow  a  bird  if 
they  miss  him  on  the  first  rise.  They  prefer 
to  keep  on  their  predetermined  course  and 
find  another.  But  for  me  there  is  little  pleas 
ure  in  that  kind  of  sport.  What  I  enjoy  most 
is  not  shooting,  but  hunting.  The  chase  is  the 
thing — the  chase  after  a  particular  bird  once 
flushed,  the  setting  of  my  wits  against  his  in 
the  endeavor  to  follow  up  his  flight.  We  have 
now  and  then  flushed  the  same  bird  nine  or 
ten  times  before  we  got  him  —  and  we  have 
not  always  got  him  then.  For  many  and  deep 
are  the  crafty  ways  of  the  old  partridge,  and 
we  have  not  yet  learned  them  all.  That  is 
why  I  like  partridge-hunting  better  than 
quail  or  woodcock,  though  in  these  you  get 
far  more  and  better  shooting.  Quail  start  in  a 
bunch,  scatter,  fly,  and  drop  where  you  can 
flush  them  again,  one  at  a  time;  woodcock 
fly  in  a  zigzag,  drop  where  they  happen  to,  and 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    191 

sit  still  till  you  almost  step  on  them.  But  the 
partridge  thinks  as  he  flies — thinks  to  good 
advantage.  He  seems  to  know  what  we  expect 
him  to  do,  and  then  he  does  something  else. 
How  many  times  have  we  gone  past  him  when 
he  sat  quietly  between  us,  and  then  heard 
him  fly  off  stealthily  down  our  back  track! 
How  often,  in  a  last  desperate  search  for  a 
vanished  bird,  have  I  jumped  on  every  felled 
cedar  top  in  a  field — except  the  one  he  was 
under!  How  often  have  I  broken  open  my 
gun  to  climb  a  stone  wall,  —  for  we  are  cau 
tious  folk,  Jonathan  and  I,  —  and,  as  I  stood 
in  perilous  balance,  seen  a  great  bird  burst 
out  from  under  my  very  feet!  How  often  — 
but  I  am  not  going  to  be  tempted  into  telling 
hunting-stories.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
hunting-stories  chiefly  interest  the  narrator. 
I  have  watched  sportsmen  telling  tales  in  the 
evenings,  and  noted  how  every  man  but  the 
speaker  grows  restive  as  he  watches  for  a 
chance  to  get  in  his  own  favorite  yarn. 

And  it  is  not  the  partridges  alone  with  whom 
we  grow  acquainted.  We  have  glimpses,  too, 
of  the  other  outdoor  creatures.  The  life  of  the 
woods  slips  away  from  us  as  we  pass,  but  only 


192  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

just  out  of  sight,  and  not  always  that.  The 
blue  jays  scream  in  the  tree-tops,  officiously 
proclaiming  us  to  the  woods;  the  chickadees, 
who  must  see  all  that  goes  on,  hop  close  beside 
us  in  the  bushes;  the  gray  squirrel  dodges 
behind  a  tree  trunk  with  just  the  corner  of  an 
eye  peering  at  us  around  it.  The  chipmunk 
darts  into  the  stone  wall,  and  doubtless  looks 
at  us  from  its  safe  depths;  the  rabbit  gallops 
off  from  the  brier  tangle  or  the  brush  heap,  or 
sits  up,  round-eyed,  thinking,  little  silly,  that 
we  don't  see  him.  Once  I  saw  a  beautiful  red 
fox  who  leaped  into  the  open  for  a  moment, 
stood  poised,  and  leaped  on  into  the  brush; 
and  once,  as  I  sat  resting,  a  woodchuck,  big 
and  uncombed,  hustled  busily  past  me,  so 
close  I  could  have  touched  him.  He  did  not 
see  me,  and  seemed  so  preoccupied  with  some 
pressing  business  that  I  should  hardly  have 
been  surprised  to  see  him  pull  a  watch  out  of 
his  pocket,  like  Alice's  rabbit,  and  mutter,  "I 
shall  be  late."  I  had  not  known  that  the  wood 
creatures  ever  felt  hurried  except  when  pur 
sued.  Another  time  I  was  working  up  the 
slope  on  the  sunny  edge  of  a  run,  and,  as  I 
drew  myself  up  over  the  edge  of  a  big  rock,  I 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    193 

found  myself  face  to  face  —  nose  to  nose  — 
with  a  calm,  mild-eyed,  cottontail  rabbit.  He 
did  not  remain  calm;  in  fact,  we  were  both 
startled,  but  he  recovered  first,  and  hopped 
softly  over  the  side  of  the  rock,  and  went  gal 
loping  away  through  the  brushy  bottom,  while 
I,  still  kneeling,  watched  him  disappear  just 
as  Jonathan  came  up. 

"What's  the  joke?" 

"Nothing,  only  I  just  met  a  rabbit.  He 
sat  here,  right  here,  and  he  was  so  rabbit-y! 
He  looked  at  me  just  like  an  Easter  card." 

"Why  did  n't  you  shoot  him?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it.  I  wish  you  had 
seen  how  his  nose  twiddled!  And,  anyhow, 
I  would  n't  shoot  anything  sitting  up  that 
way,  like  a  tame  kitten." 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  shoot  when  he 
ran?" 

"Shoot  a  rabbit  running!  Running  in  scal 
lops!  I  could  n't." 

The  fact  is,  I  should  n't  shoot  a  rabbit  any 
way,  unless  driven  by  hunger.  I  am  not  hu 
mane,  but  merely  sentimental  about  them 
because  they  are  soft  and  pretty.  Once,  in 
deed,  when  I  found  all  my  beautiful  heads  of 


194  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

lettuce  neatly  nibbled  off  down  to  the  central 
stalks,  I  almost  hardened  my  heart  against 
them,  but  the  next  time  I  met  one  of  the  little 
fellows  I  forgave  him  all. 

I  believe  that  one  of  the  very  best  things 
about  our  way  of  following  a  partridge  is  the 
sense  of  intimacy  with  the  countryside  which 
it  creates  —  an  intimacy  which  nothing  else 
has  ever  given  us.  In  most  outdoor  faring 
one  sticks  to  the  roads  and  paths,  in  fishing  one 
keeps  to  the  water-courses,  in  cross-country 
tramping  one  unconsciously  goes  around 
obstacles.  Nothing  but  the  headlong  and 
undeviating  pursuit  of  a  bird  along  a  path  of 
his  choosing  would  ever  have  given  me  that 
acquaintance  with  ledge  and  swamp  and  laurel 
copse  that  I  now  possess.  I  know  our  swamp 
as  a  hippopotamus  might,  or  —  to  stick  to 
plain  Yankee  creatures  —  a  mud  turtle.  It  is 
a  very  swampy  swamp,  with  spring  holes  and 
channels  and  great  shallow  pools  where  the 
leaves  from  the  tall  swamp  maples  —  scarlet 
and  rose  and  ashes  of  roses  —  sift  slowly  down 
and  float  until  they  sink  into  the  leaf  mould 
beneath.  I  have  favorite  paths  through  it  as 
the  squirrels  have  in  the  tree-tops;  I  know 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    195 

where  the  mud  is  too  deep  to  venture,  where 
the  sprawling,  moss-covered  roots  of  the 
maples  offer  grateful  support;  I  know  the 
brushy  edges  where  the  blossoming  witch- 
hazel  fills  the  air  with  its  quaint  fragrance;  I 
know  the  sunny,  open  places  where  the  tufted 
ferns,  shoulder  high,  and  tawny  gold  after  the 
early  frosts,  give  insecure  but  welcome  foot 
ing;  I  know  —  too  well  indeed  —  the  thickets 
of  black  alder  that  close  in  about  me  and  tug 
at  my  gun  and  drive  me  to  fury. 

Yes,  we  know  that  swamp,  and  other 
swamps  only  less  well.  We  know  the  rock 
ledges,  the  big  dry  woods  of  oak  and  chest 
nut  and  maple  and  beech.  We  know  the 
ravines  where  the  great  hemlocks  keep  the  air 
always  dim  and  still,  and  one  goes  silent- 
footed  over  the  needle  floor.  We  grow  familiar, 
too,  with  all  the  little  things  about  the  coun 
try.  We  discover  new  haunts  of  the  fringed 
gentian,  the  wonderful,  the  capricious,  with 
its  unbelievable  blue  that  one  sees  nowhere 
else  save  under  the  black  lashes  of  some  Irish 
eyes.  We  find  the  shy  spring  orchids,  gone  to 
seed  now,  but  we  remember  and  seek  them 
out  again  next  May.  We  surprise  the  spring 


196  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

flowers  in  their  rare  fall  blossoming  —  violets 
white  and  blue  in  the  warm,  moist  bottom 
lands,  sand  violets  on  the  dry  knolls,  daisies, 
hepaticas,  buttercups,  and  anemones  —  I 
have  seen  all  these  in  a  single  day  in  raw 
November.  We  learn  where  the  biggest  chest 
nuts  grow  —  great  silky  brown  fellows  almost 
twice  the  size  of  Jonathan's  thumb.  We  dis 
cover  old  landmarks  in  the  deep  woods,  sur 
veyors'  posts,  a  heap  of  stones  carefully  piled 
on  a  big  rock.  We  find  old  clearings,  over 
grown  now,  but  our  feet  still  feel  underneath 
the  weeds  the  furrows  left  by  the  plow.  Now 
and  then  we  come  upon  a  spot  where  once 
there  must  have  been  a  home.  There  is  no 
house,  no  timbers  even,  but  the  stone  cellar  is 
not  wholly  obliterated,  and  the  gnarled  lilac- 
bush  and  the  apple  tree  stubbornly  cling  to  a 
worn-out  life  amidst  the  forest  of  young  white 
oaks  and  chestnuts  that  has  closed  in  about 
them.  Once  we  came  upon  a  little  group  of 
gravestones,  only  three  or  four,  sunken  in  the 
ground  and  so  overgrown  and  weather-worn 
that  we  could  read  nothing.  There  was  no 
sign  of  a  human  habitation,  but  I  suppose 
they  must  have  been  placed  there  in  the  old 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  PARTRIDGE    197 

days  when  the  family  burial-ground  was  in 
one  corner  of  the  farm  itself. 

We  learn  to  know  where  the  springs  of  pure 
water  are,  welling  up  out  of  the  deep  ground 
in  a  tiny  pool  under  some  big  rock  or  between 
the  roots  of  a  great  yellow  birch  tree.  And 
when  the  sun  shines  hot  at  noon,  and  a  lost 
trail  and  a  vanished  bird  leave  us  to  the  sud 
den  realization  that  we  are  tired  and  thirsty, 
we  know  where  is  the  nearest  water.  We 
know,  too,  the  knack  of  drinking  so  as  not  to 
swallow  the  little  gnats  that  skim  its  surface 
—  you  must  blow  them  back  ever  so  gently, 
and  drink  before  they  close  in  again.  How 
good  it  tastes  as  we  lie  at  full  length  on  the 
matted  brown  leaves !  How  good  the  crackers 
taste,  too,  and  the  crisp  apples,  as  we  sit  by 
the  spring  and  rest,  and  talk  over  the  morn 
ing's  hunt  and  plan  the  afternoon's  —  subject 
to  the  caprices  of  the  birds. 

But  I  suppose  the  very  best  about  hunting 
can  never  be  told  at  all.  That  is  true  of  any 
really  good  thing,  and  there  is  nothing  better 
than  a  long  day  after  the  birds.  It  is  always 
good  to  be  out  of  doors.  And  there  are  seasons 
when  one  is  glad  to  wander  slowly  over  the 


198  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

fields  and  byways;  there  are  times  when  it 
seems  best  of  all  to  be  still  —  in  the  heart  of 
the  woods,  on  the  wide  hill  pastures,  in  the 
deep  grass  of  the  meadows.  But  not  in  the 
fall!  Is  it  a  breath  of  the  migrating  instinct 
that  makes  us  want  to  be  off  and  away,  to  go, 
and  go,  and  go?  Yes,  fall  is  the  time  for  the 
hunt  —  gay,  boisterous  fall,  rioting  in  wind 
and  color  to  keep  up  its  spirits  against  the 
stealthy  approach  of  winter.  And  whether  we 
shoot  well  or  ill,  whether  our  game  pockets  are 
heavy  or  light,  no  matter  what  the  weather 
we  find  or  the  country  we  cross,  it  is  all  good 
hunting,  very  good.  And  at  night  we  come  in 
to  a  blazing  fire,  feeling  tired,  oh,  so  tired !  and 
hungry,  oh,  so  hungry!  and  with  soul  and 
body  shriven  clean  by  wind  and  sun. 


XV 

Beyond  the  Realm  of  Weather 

OUR  friends  say  to  us  now  and  then,  "But 
why  must  you  do  these  things  with  a  gun? 
Why  can't  you  do  the  same  things  and  leave 
the  gun  at  home?"  Why,  indeed?  When  I 
put  this  question  to  Jonathan,  he  smokes  on 
placidly.  But  of  one  thing  I  am  sure:  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  guns  and  the  ducks,  I  should 
never  have  known  what  the  marshes  were  like 
in  winter  fog  —  what  they  were  like  under  a 
winter  sky  with  a  wind  straight  from  the  North 
Pole  sweeping  over  their  bare  stretches. 

It  was  early  afternoon.  Through  the  study 
window  I  looked  out  upon  a  raw,  foggy  world, 
melting  snow  underfoot  and  overhead.  It 
was  the  kind  of  day  about  which  even  the 
most  deliberately  cheerful  can  find  little  to  say 
except  that  this  sort  of  thing  can't  last  forever, 
you  know.  However,  if  I  had  had  a  true  in 
stinct  for  "nature,"  I  should,  I  suppose,  have 
seen  at  a  glance  that  it  was  just  the  day  to  go 


200  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

and  lie  in  a  marsh.  But  this  did  not  occur  to 
me.  Instead,  I  thought  of  open  fires,  and  pop 
corn,  and  hot  peanuts,  and  novels,  and  fudge, 
and  other  such  things,  which  are  supposed  to 
be  valuable  as  palliatives  on  days  like  these. 

The  telephone  rang.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Jona 
than!  .  .  .  What?  No,  not  really!  You 
wouldn't!  .  .  .  Well,  if  the  ducks  like  it, 
they  may  have  it  all.  I  'm  not  a  duck.  .  .  . 
Why,  of  course,  if  you  really  want  me  to,  I  '11 
go,  only  ...  All  right,  I'll  get  out  the 
things.  .  .  .  Three  o'clock  train?  You'll 
have  to  hurry!" 

I  hung  up  the  receiver  and  sat  a  moment, 
dazed,  looking  out  at  the  reek  of  weather. 
Then  I  shook  myself  and  darted  upstairs  to 
the  hunting-closet.  In  half  an  hour  the  bag 
was  packed  and  Jonathan  was  at  the  door. 
In  an  hour  we  were  on  the  train,  and  at  twi 
light  we  were  tramping  out  into  a  fog-swept 
marsh.  Grayness  was  all  around  us;  under 
foot  was  mud,  glimmering  patches  of  soft 
snow,  and  the  bristly  stubble  of  the  close-cut 
marsh  grass. 

"What  fools  we  are!"  I  murmured. 

"Why?"  said  Jonathan  contentedly. 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER  201 

"Oh,  if  you  can't  see — "  I  said. 

And  then,  suddenly,  as  we  walked,  my 
whole  attitude  changed.  The  weather,  as 
weather,  seemed  something  that  belonged  in 
a  city  —  very  far  away,  and  no  concern  of 
mine.  This  was  n't  weather,  here  where  we 
walked;  it  was  a  gray  and  boundless  world  of 
mystery.  We  raised  our  heads  high  and 
breathed  long,  deep  breaths  as  the  fog  drifted 
against  our  faces.  We  were  aware  of  dim 
masses  of  huddling  bushes,  blurred  outlines 
of  sheds  and  fences.  Then  only  the  level 
marsh  stretched  out  before  us  and  around  us. 

"Can  we  find  our  way  out  again?"  I  mur 
mured,  though  without  real  anxiety. 

"Probably,"  said  Jonathan.  "Isn't  it 
great!  You  feel  as  if  you  had  a  soul  out  here! 
By  the  way,  what  was  it  you  said  about 
fools?" 

"I  forget,"  I  said. 

We  went  on  and  on,  I  don't  know  just 
where  or  how  long,  until  we  came  to  the  creek, 
where  the  tide  sets  in  and  out.  I  should  have 
walked  into  it  if  Jonathan  had  n't  held  me 
back.  As  we  followed  it,  there  rose  a  hoarse, 
raucous  "Ngwalc !  ngwak !  ngwak  I "  and  a  great 


202  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

rush  of  wings.  Jonathan  dropped  on  one 
knee,  gun  up,  but  we  saw  nothing. 

66  We'll  settle  down  here,"  he  said.  "There'll 
be  more  coming  in  soon.  Wait  a  minute  — 
hold  my  gun."  He  disappeared  in  the  fog, 
and  came  back  with  an  armful  of  hay,  taken 
from  the  heart  of  a  haystack  of  whose  exist 
ence  he  seemed,  by  some  sixth  or  seventh 
sense,  to  be  aware.  "There!  That'll  keep 
you  off  the  real  marsh.  Now  settle  down,  and 
don't  move,  and  listen  with  all  your  ears,  and 
be  ready.  I'll  go  off  a  little  way." 

I  sank  down  on  the  hay,  and  watched  him 
melt  into  the  grayness.  I  was  alone  in  the  dim 
marsh.  There  was  no  wind,  no  sound  but  the 
far-off  whistle  and  rush  of  a  train.  I  lay  there 
and  thought  of  nothing.  I  let  myself  be  ab 
sorbed  into  the  twilight.  I  did  not  even  feel 
that  I  had  a  soul.  I  was  nothing  but  a  point  of 
consciousness  in  the  midst  of  a  gray  infinity. 

Suddenly  I  was  aware  of  a  sound  —  a  rapid 
pulsing  of  soft,  high  tone  —  too  soft  for  a 
whistle,  too  high  for  a  song, — pervasive,  elus 
ive;  it  was  overhead,  it  was  beside  me,  behind 
me,  where?  Ah — it  was  wings!  The  winnowing 
of  wings!  I  half  rose,  grasping  my  gun,  with 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER    203 

a  sense  of  responsibility  to  Jonathan.  But  my 
vision  was  caught  in  the  grayness  as  in  a  web. 
The  sound  grew  clearer,  then  fainter,  then  it 
passed  away.  The  twilight  gathered,  and  the 
fog  partly  dissolved.  A  fine  rain  began  to  fall, 
and  in  the  intense  silence  I  could  hear  the  faint 
pricking  of  the  drops  on  the  stiff  marsh  stub 
ble.  I  had  thought  the  patter  of  rain  on  a  roof 
was  the  stillest  sound  I  knew,  but  this  was 
stiller.  Again  came  the  winnowing  of  wings — 
again  and  again;  and  sometimes  I  was  able  to 
see  the  dark  shapes  passing  overhead  and 
vanishing  almost  before  they  appeared.  Now 
and  then  I  heard  the  muffled,  flat  sound  of 
Jonathan's  gun  —  he  was  evidently  living  up 
to  his  opportunities  better  than  I  was.  Oc 
casionally,  in  a  spasm  of  activity,  I  shot 
too. 

Until  night  closed  in  about  us  that  sound  of 
wings  filled  the  air,  and  I  knelt,  listening  and 
watching.  It  is  strange  how  one  can  be  phys 
ically  alert  while  yet  one's  soul  is  withdrawn, 
quiet  and  receptive.  Out  of  this  state,  as  out 
of  a  trance,  I  was  roused  by  the  sense  of  Jona 
than's  dim  bulk,  seeming  "larger  than  mor 
tal,  "  as  he  emerged  from  the  night. 


204  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Cold?  "he  said. 

"I  don't  know  —  no,  of  course  I'm  not." 
I  found  it  hard  to  lay  hold  on  clear  ideas 
again. 

"I  heard  you  shoot.  Get  any?  " 
"I  think  I  hurried  them  a  little." 
We  started  back.  At  least  I  suppose  it  was 
back,  because  after  a  while  we  came  to  the 
road  we  had  left.  I  was  conscious  only  of  be 
wildering  patches  of  snow  that  lay  like  half- 
veiled  moonlight  on  the  dark  stretches  of  the 
marsh.  At  last  a  clump  of  cedars  made  them 
selves  felt  rather  than  seen.  "There's  the 
fence  corner !  We  're  all  right,"  said  Jonathan. 
A  snow-filled  horse  rut  gave  faint  guidance,  the 
twigs  of  the  hedgerow  lightly  felt  of  our  faces 
as  we  passed.  We  found  the  main  road,  and  it 
led  us  through  the  quiet,  fog-bound  village, 
whose  house  lights  made  tiny  blurs  on  the 
mist,  to  the  hot,  bright  little  station.  Then 
came  the  close,  flaringly  lighted  car,  and 
people — commuters  —  getting  on  and  off, 
talking  about  the  "weather,"  and  filling  the 
car  with  the  smell  of  wet  newspapers  and  um 
brellas.  We  had  returned  to  the  land  of 
"weather."  Yet  it  did  not  really  touch  us.  It 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER    205 

seemed  a  dream.  The  reality  was  the  marsh, 
with  its  fog  and  its  pricking  raindrops  and  its 
sentinel  cedars,  its  silence  and  its  wings. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  fog  passed, 
and  there  were  long,  warm  rains.  The  marsh 
called  us,  but  we  could  not  go.  Then  the  sky 
cleared,  the  wind  rose,  the  mercury  began  to 
drop.  Jonathan  looked  across  the  luncheon 
table  and  said,  "What  about  ducks?" 

"Can  you  get  off  ?"  I  asked  joyously. 

"I  can't,  but  I  will,"  he  replied. 

And  this  time  —  Did  I  think  I  knew  the 
marsh?  Did  I  suppose,  having  seen  it  at  dawn 
in  the  fall  days  when  the  sun  still  rises  early, 
having  seen  it  in  winter  twilight,  fog-beset, 
that  I  knew  it?  Do  I  suppose  I  know  it  now? 
At  least  I  know  it  better,  having  seen  it  under 
a  clearing  sky,  when  the  cold  wind  sweeps  it 
clean,  and  the  air,  crystalline,  seems  like  a  lens 
through  which  one  looks  and  sees  a  revelation 
of  new  things. 

As  we  struck  into  the  marsh,  just  at  sun 
down,  my  first  thought  was  a  rushing  prayer 
for  words,  for  colors,  for  something  to  catch 
and  hold  the  beauty  of  it.  But  there  are  no 
words,  no  colors.  No  one  who  has  not  seen 


206  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

it  can  know  what  a  New  England  shore  marsh 
can  be  in  winter  under  a  golden  sky. 

Winter  does  some  things  for  us  that  sum 
mer  cannot  do.  Summer  gives  us  everything 
all  at  once  —  color,  fragrance,  line,  sound  — 
in  an  overwhelming  exuberance  of  riches. 
And  it  is  good.  But  winter  —  Ah,  winter  is 
an  artist,  winter  has  reserves;  he  selects,  he 
emphasizes,  he  interprets.  Winter  says,  "  I  will 
give  you  nothing  to-day  but  brown  and  white, 
but  I  will  glorify  these  until  you  shall  wonder 
that  there  can  be  any  beauty  except  thus." 
And  again  winter  says:  "Did  you  think  the 
world  was  brown  and  white?  Lo,  it  is  blue 
and  rose  and  silver  —  nothing  else!"  And  we 
look,  and  it  is  so.  On  that  other  evening,  in 
the  fog,  the  world  had  been  all  gray  —  black- 
gray  and  pale  gray  and  silver  gray.  On  this 
evening  winter  said:  "Gray?  Not  at  all.  You 
shall  have  brown  and  gold.  Behold  and  mar 
vel!" 

I  marveled.  There  was  a  sweep  of  golden 
marsh,  under  a  gold  sky,  and  at  its  borders 
low  lines  of  trees  etched  in  rich  brown  masses, 
and  my  sentinel  cedars  standing  singly  or  by 
twos  and  threes  —  cedars  in  their  winter 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER    207 

tones  of  olive  brown,  dull  almost  to  harshness, 
holding  themselves  stiffly  against  the  great 
wind,  yielding  only  at  their  delicate  tips 
when  the  gusts  came,  recovering  again  in  the 
lulls,  to  point  dauntlessly  skyward.  The  nar 
row  boundary  ditches,  already  glassing  over 
in  the  sudden  cold,  stretched  away  in  rigid 
lines,  flashing  back  the  light  of  the  sky  in 
shivers  of  gold.  The  haystacks  reiterated  the 
color  notes  —  gold  on  their  sunset  side,  deep 
brown  on  their  shadowed  one. 

There  is  a  moment  sometimes,  just  at  sun 
down,  when  the  quality  of  light  changes.  It 
does  not  fall  upon  the  world  from  without,  it 
radiates  from  within.  Things  seem  self-lum 
inous.  Yet,  for  all  their  brightness,  we  see 
them  less  clearly,  one's  vision  is  dazzled, 
enmeshed.  It  is  the  time  when  that  wondrous 
old  word  " faerie"  finds  its  meaning.  It  is  a 
magic  moment.  It  laid  its  spell  upon  us. 

Jonathan  emerged  first,  bracing  himself. 
"It  will  shut  down  soon.  We  haven't  a 
minute  to  spare.  We  ought  to  be  on  the  creek 


now." 


It  was  hard  to  believe  that  such  brightness 
could  ever  shut  down.  But  it  did.  By  the  time 


208  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

we  reached  the  creek  the  gold  had  vanished, 
except  for  a  narrow  line  in  the  western  sky. 
The  world  lay  in  clear,  brown  twilight,  and  the 
wind  swept  over  it. 

Jonathan  got  more  hay,  and  this  time  I  saw 
the  haystack  from  which  he  plucked  it.  I 
threw  myself  on  it,  collar  up,  cap  down,  lying 
as  low  as  possible. 

"Bad  night  for  ducks,  of  course,"  growled 
Jonathan.  "If  only  the  thaw  had  held  twelve 
hours  more!  However — " 

He  swung  off  to  some  chosen  spot  of  his 
own. 

I  lay  there  and  the  wind  surged  over  me. 
There  was  nothing  to  stop  it,  nothing  to  make 
it  noisy.  It  sang  a  little  around  the  flap  of  my 
coat,  it  swished  a  little  in  the  short  marsh 
grass,  but  chiefly  it  rushed  by  above  me,  in 
invisible,  soundless  might.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
must  come  between  me  and  the  stars,  but  it 
did  not,  and  I  watched  them  appear,  at  first 
one  by  one,  then  in  companies  and  cohorts, 
until  the  sky  was  powdered  with  them.  Now 
and  then  a  dark  line  of  ducks  streamed  over 
me,  high  up,  in  direct,  steady  flight,  but  the 
sound  of  their  wings  was  swallowed  up  by  the 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER  209 

wind.  I  did  not  even  try  to  shoot;  I  was  try 
ing  to  find  myself  in  an  elemental  world  that 
seemed  bigger  and  more  powerful  than  I  had 
ever  conceived  it. 

Gradually  I  realized  that  I  was  cold.  The 
wind  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  aware 
of  me.  It  roared  down  upon  me,  it  shook  me, 
worried  me,  let  me  go,  and  pounced  upon  me 
again  in  the  sport  of  power.  I  said  to  myself, 
"I  cannot  resist,  I  will  give  myself  up  to  it 
absolutely."  I  stopped  feeling  cold.  I  was 
no  more  than  a  ship's  timber  lying  on  the 
shore  —  with  just  a  centre,  a  point  of  con 
sciousness  somewhere  inside,  to  be  aware  of 
the  difference  between  the  elements  and  the 
something  I  knew  was  myself. 

But  at  last  I  moved.  It  was  fatal.  A  wave 
of  cold  started,  pricking  somewhere  in  my 
head,  and  undulated  sinuously  through  me, 
down  to  my  feet.  More  waves  followed;  they 
careered  through  me.  I  considered  them  with 
interest.  Then  they  settled  into  aches  at  all 
the  extremities.  All  at  once  it  ceased  to  be 
interesting,  and  became  a  personal  grievance 
—  against  the  wind?  the  ducks?  No  —  Jona 
than!  Of  course  it  was  Jonathan's  fault.  Why 


210  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

did  n't  he  come?  I  gazed  into  the  twilight 
where  he  had  disappeared.  I  could  n't  go  and 
hunt  for  him,  because  I  should  certainly  get 
lost  or  fall  into  a  ditch.  Ah!  What  was  that? 
The  long  red  flash  of  a  gun!  —  another!  - 
then  the  double  report!  Well,  of  course,  if  he 
were  shooting,  I  would  suspend  judgment  a 
reasonable  time. 

But  it  seemed  quite  an  unreasonable  time 
before  I  felt  the  impact  of  his  tread  on  the 
springy  marsh  floor.  I  rose  stiffly,  feeling 
cross. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  never  coming?" 

"I  can't  think.   My  brains  are  stiff." 

"I  was  delayed.  I  dropped  one  in  the  ditch. 
He  was  only  wounded.  I  could  n't  leave  him." 

"Then  you  got  some?" 

"Feel!" 

I  felt  his  game  pockets.  "One,  two  —  oh, 
three !  I  did  n't  hear  you  shoot  except  twice. 
Well"  —  I  was  stamping  and  flinging  my 
arms  around  myself  in  the  endeavor  to  thaw 
out  —  "I  think  they're  very  well  off:  they're 
bound  for  a  warm  oven." 

"Cold?  Thunder!  I  ought  to  have  left 
you  the  bottle.  Here!" 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER    211 

I  took  it  and  gulped,  protesting:  "Detest 
able  stuff!  Wait,  I'll  take  some  more." 

"This  from  you!  You  must  be  cold!  Come 
on!  Run!  Look  out  for  the  little  ditches! 
Jump  where  I  do." 

We  started  stiffly  enough,  in  the  teeth  of 
the  big,  dark  wind,  till  the  motion,  and  the 
bottle,  began  to  take  effect.  A  haymow 
loomed.  W7e  flung  ourselves,  panting,  against 
it,  and,  sinking  back  into  its  yielding  bulk, 
drew  long  breaths. 

"Did  we  think  it  was  cold  ?"  I  murmured; 
"or  windy?" 

We  were  on  the  leeward  side  of  it,  and  it 
gave  generous  shelter.  The  wind  sighed  gently 
over  the  top  of  the  mow,  breathed  past  its 
sides,  never  touching  us,  and  we  gazed  up  at 
the  stars. 

"The  sky  is  fairly  gray  with  them,"  I  said. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jonathan  lazily,  "it's  that 
bottle,  making  you  see  ten  stars  grow  where 
one  grew  before." 

"Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  choosing  to  ignore 
this  speech,  "it's  the  wind,  blowing  the  stars 
around  and  raising  star-dust." 

Wre  lay  in  our  protecting  mow,  and  the 


212  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

warmth  of  our  bodies  drew  out  of  it  faint  odors 
of  salt  hay.  We  did  not  talk.  There  are  times 
when  one  seems  to  exist  in  poise,  with  etern 
ity  on  all  sides.  One's  thoughts  do  not  move, 
they  float. 

"Well?"  said  Jonathan  at  last. 

I  could  hear  the  hay  rustle  as  he  straight 
ened  up. 

"Don't  interrupt,"  I  answered. 

But  my  spirit  had  come  down  to  earth,  and 
after  the  first  jolt  I  realized  that,  as  usual, 
Jonathan  was  right. 

We  plunged  out  again  into  the  buffeting 
wind  and  the  starlit  darkness,  and  I  followed 
blindly  as  Jonathan  led  across  the  marshes, 
around  pools,  over  ditches,  until  we  began  to 
see  the  friendly  twinkle  of  house  lights  on  the 
edge  of  the  village.  On  through  the  lanes  to 
the  highroad,  stumbling  now  and  then  on  its 
stiffened  ruts  and  ridges.  As  houses  thickened 
the  gale  grew  noisy,  singing  in  telphone  wires, 
whistling  around  barn  corners,  slamming 
blinds  and  doors,  and  rushing  in  the  tree-tops. 

"O  for  that  haymow!"  I  gasped. 

"The  open  fire  will  be  better."  Jonathan 
flung  back  comfort  across  the  wind. 


BEYOND  THE  REALM  OF  WEATHER  213 

Ten  minutes  later  we  had  made  harbor  in 
the  little  house  by  the  shore.  The  candles 
were  lighted,  the  fire  set  ablaze,  and  as  we  sat 
before  it  cooking  chops  and  toast  I  said,  "No, 
Jonathan,  the  open  fire  is  n't  any  better  than 
the  haymow." 

"But  different?"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,  quite  different." 

"And  good  in  its  own  poor  way." 

He  turned  his  chop.  Chops  and  toast  and 
a  blazing  fire  give  forth  odors  of  distracting 
pleasantness  under  such  circumstances. 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "that  each  gives  point 
to  the  other." 

"Are  n't  you  glad  I  took  you  for  ducks?" 
he  asked. 

I  mused,  watching  my  toast.  "I  suppose," 
I  said,  "no  one  in  his  senses  would  leave  a 
comfortable  city  house  to  go  and  lie  out  in  a 
marsh  at  night,  in  a  forty-mile  gale,  with  the 
mercury  at  ten,  unless  he  had  some  other  mo 
tive  than  the  thing  itself  — ducks,  or  conspir 
acy,  or  something.  And  yet  it  is  the  thing 
itself  that  is  the  real  reward." 

"Isn't  that  true  of  almost  everything?" 
said  Jonathan. 


XVI 

Comfortable  Books 

JONATHAN  methodically  tucked  his  bookmark 
into  "The  Virginians,"  and,  closing  the  fat 
green  volume,  began  to  knock  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe  against  the  bricked  sides  of  the 
fireplace. 

"The  Virginians'  is  a  very  comfortable 
sort  of  book,"  he  remarked. 
"Is  it?"  I  said.   "I  wonder  why." 
He  ruminated.    "Well,  chiefly,  I  suppose, 
because  it's  so  good  and  long.    You  get  to 
know  all  the  people,  you  get  used  to  their 
ways,  and  when  they  turn  up  again,  after  a 
lot  of  chapters,  you  don'i  have  to  find  out  who 
they  are  —  you   just   feel   comfortably   ac 
quainted." 

I  sighed.  I  had  just  finished  a  magazine 
story  —  condensed,  vivid,  crushing  a  whole 
life-tragedy  into  seven  pages  and  a  half.  In 
that  space  I  had  been  made  acquainted  with 
sixteen  different  characters,  seven  principal 


COMFORTABLE  BOOKS  215 

ones  and  the  rest  subordinate,  but  all  clearly 
drawn.  I  had  found  it  interesting,  stimulating; 
as  a  tour  de  force  it  was  noteworthy  even 
among  the  crowd  of  short-stories  —  all  con 
densed,  all  vivid,  all  interesting — that  had 
appeared  that  month.  But — comfortable? 
No.  And  I  felt  envious  of  Jonathan.  He  had 
been  reading  "  The  Virginians "  all  winter. 
His  bookmark  was  at  page  597,  and  there 
were  803  pages  in  all,  so  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  comfort  left. 

Perhaps  comfort  is  not  quite  all  that  one 
should  expect  from  one's  reading.  Certainly 
it  is  the  last  thing  one  gets  from  the  perusal 
of  our  current  literature,  and  any  one  who 
reads  nothing  else  is  missing  something  which, 
whether  he  realizes  it  or  not,  he  ought  for  his 
soul's  sake  to  have  —  something  which  Jona 
than  roughly  indicated  when  he  called  it 
"comfort."  The  ordinary  reader  devours 
short -stories  by  the  dozen,  by  the  score  — 
short  short-stories,  long  short-stories,  even 
short-stories  laboriously  expanded  to  a  vol 
ume,  but  still  short-stories.  He  glances,  less 
frequently,  at  verses,  chiefly  quatrains,  at  col 
umns  of  jokes,  at  popularized  bits  of  history 


216  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

and  science,  at  bits  of  anecdotal  biography, 
and  nowhere  in  all  this  medley  does  he  come 
in  contact  with  what  is  large  and  leisurely. 
Current  literature  is  like  a  garden  I  once  saw. 
Its  proud  owner  led  me  through  a  maze  of 
smooth-trodden  paths,  and  pointed  out  a  vast 
number  of  horticultural  achievements.  There 
were  sixty-seven  varieties  of  dahlias,  there 
were  more  than  a  hundred  kinds  of  roses, 
there  were  untold  wonders  which  at  last  my 
weary  brain  refused  to  record.  Finally  I 
escaped,  exhausted,  and  sought  refuge  on  a 
hillside  I  knew,  from  which  I  could  look  across 
the  billowing  green  of  a  great  rye-field,  and 
there,  given  up  to  the  beauty  of  its  mani 
fold  simplicity,  I  invited  my  soul. 

It  is  even  so  with  our  reading.  When  I  go 
into  one  of  our  public  reading-rooms,  and 
survey  the  serried  ranks  of  magazines  and  the 
long  shelves  full  of  "Recent  fiction,  not  to  be 
taken  out  for  more  than  five  days,"  -  nay, 
even  when  I  look  at  the  library  tables  of  some 
of  my  friends,  —  my  brain  grows  sick  and  I 
long  for  my  rye-field. 

Happily,  there  always  is  a  rye-field  at  hand 
to  be  had  for  the  seeking.  Jonathan  finds  re- 


COMFORTABLE  BOOKS  217 

fuge  from  business  and  the  newspapers  in  his 
pipe  and  "The  Virginians."  I  have  no  pipe, 
but  I  sit  under  the  curling  rings  of  Jonathan's, 
and  I,  too,  have  my  comfortable  books,  my 
literary  rye-fields.  Last  summer  it  was  Mal 
ory's  "Morte  d'Arthur,"  whose  book  I  found 
indeed  a  comfortable  one — most  comfortable. 
I  read  much  besides,  many  short  stories  of 
surpassing  cleverness  and  some  of  real  excel 
lence,  but  as  I  look  back  upon  my  summer's 
literary  experience,  all  else  gives  place  to  the 
long  pageant  of  Malory's  story,  gorgeous  or 
tender  or  gay,  seen  like  a  fair  vision  against 
the  dim  background  of  an  old  New  England 
apple  orchard.  Surely,  though  the  literature 
of  our  library  tables  may  sometimes  weary 
me,  it  shall  never  enslave  me. 

But  they  must  be  read,  these  "comfortable" 
books,  in  the  proper  fashion,  not  hastily, 
nor  cursorily,  nor  with  any  desire  to  "get 
on"  in  them.  They  must  lie  at  our  hand  to  be 
taken  up  in  moments  of  leisure,  the  slowly 
shifting  bookmark  —  there  should  always  be 
a  bookmark  —  recording  our  half -reluctant 
progress.  (I  remember  with  what  dismay  I 
found  myself  arrived  at  the  fourth  and  last 


218  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

volume  of  Malory.)  Thus  read,  thus  slowly 
woven  among  the  intricacies  and  distractions 
of  our  life,  these  precious  books  will  link  its 
quiet  moments  together  and  lend  to  it  a  cer 
tain  quality  of  largeness,  of  deliberation,  of 
continuity. 

For  it  is  surely  a  mistake  to  assume,  as 
people  so  often  do,  that  in  a  life  full  of  dis 
tractions  one  should  read  only  such  things  as 
can  be  finished  at  a  single  sitting  and  that  a 
short  one.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  read 
only  books  that  "must  be  returned  within 
five  days."  For  my  part,  I  should  like  to  see 
in  our  public  libraries,  to  offset  the  shelves  of 
such  books,  other  shelves,  labeled  "Books 
that  may  and  should  be  kept  out  six  months." 
I  would  have  there  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot  and  Wordsworth  and  Spenser,  Malory 
and  Homer  and  Cervantes  and  Shakespeare 
and  Montaigne  —  oh,  they  should  be  shelves 
to  rejoice  the  soul  of  the  harassed  reader ! 

No,  if  one  can  read  but  little,  let  him  by  all 
means  read  something  big.  I  know  a  woman 
occupied  with  the  demands  of  a  peculiarly 
exigent  social  position.  Finding  her  one  day 
reading  "The  Tempest,"  I  remarked  on  her 


COMFORTABLE  BOOKS  219 

enterprise.  "Not  a  bit!"  she  protested.  "I 
am  not  reading  it  to  be  enterprising,  I  am 
reading  it  to  get  rested.  I  find  Shakespeare 
so  peaceful,  compared  with  the  magazines." 
I  have  another  friend  who  is  taking  entire 
charge  of  her  children,  besides  doing  a  good 
deal  of  her  own  housework  and  gardening. 
I  discovered  her  one  day  sitting  under  a  tree, 
reading  Matthew  Arnold's  poems,  while  the 
children  played  near  by.  I  ventured  to  com 
ment  on  what  seemed  to  me  the  incongruity 
of  her  choice  of  a  book.  "But  don't  you  see," 
she  replied,  quickly.  "That is  just  why !  I  am 
so  busy  from  minute  to  minute  doing  lots  of 
little  practical,  temporary  things,  that  I  sim 
ply  have  to  keep  in  touch  with  something 
different  —  something  large  and  quiet.  If  I 
didn't,  I  should  die!" 

I  suppose  in  the  old  days,  in  a  less  "liter 
ary"  age,  all  such  busy  folk  found  this  nec 
essary  rest  and  refreshment  in  a  single  book 
—  the  Bible.  Doubtless  many  still  do  so,  but 
not  so  many;  and  this,  quite  irrespective  of 
religious  considerations,  seems  to  me  a  great 
pity.  The  literary  quality  of  the  Scriptures 
has,  to  be  sure,  been  partly  vitiated  by  the 


220  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

lamentable  habit  of  reading  them  in  isolated 
"texts,"  instead  of  as  magnificent  wholes; 
yet,  even  so,  I  feel  sure  that  this  constant  in 
tercourse  with  the  Book  did  for  our  pre 
decessors  in  far  larger  measure  what  some 
of  these  other  books  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking  do  for  us — it  furnished  that  contact 
with  greatness  which  we  all  crave. 

It  may  be  accident,  though  I  hardly  think 
so,  that  to  find  such  books  we  must  turn  to 
the  past.  Doubtless  others  will  arise  in  the 
future  —  possibly  some  are  even  now  being 
brought  to  birth,  though  this  I  find  hard  to 
believe.  For  ours  is  the  age  of  the  short-story 
—  a  wonderful  product,  perhaps  the  finest 
flower  of  fiction,  and  one  which  has  not  yet 
achieved  all  its  victories  or  realized  all  its 
possibilities.  All  the  fiction  of  the  future  will 
show  the  influence  of  this  highly  specialized 
form.  In  sheer  craftsmanship,  novel-writing 
has  progressed  far;  in  technique,  in  dexterous 
manipulation  of  their  material,  the  novices  of 
to-day  are  ahead  of  the  masters  of  yesterday. 
This  often  happens  in  an  art,  and  it  is  espe 
cially  true  just  now  in  the  art  of  fiction.  Yes, 
there  are  great  things  preparing  for  us  in  the 


COMFORTABLE  BOOKS  221 

future,  there  are  excellent  things  being  done 
momently  about  us.  But  while  we  wait  for 
the  great  ones,  the  excellent  ones  sometimes 
create  in  us  a  sense  of  surfeit.  We  cannot 
hurry  the  future,  and  if  meanwhile  we  crave 
repose,  leisure,  quiet,  steadiness,  the  sense  of 
magnitude,  we  must  go  to  the  past.  There, 
and  not  in  the  yearly  output  of  our  own 
publishers,  we  shall  find  our  "comfortable" 
books. 


XVII 
In  the  Firelight 

JONATHAN  had  improvidently  lighted  his  pipe 
before  he  noticed  that  the  fire  needed  his  at 
tention.  This  was  a  mistake,  because,  at  least 
in  Jonathan's  case,  neither  a  fire  nor  a  pipe 
responds  heartily  to  a  divided  mind.  As  1 
watched  him  absently  knocking  the  charred 
logs  together,  I  longed  to  snatch  the  tongs 
from  his  indifferent  hands  and  "change  the 
sorry  scheme  of  things  entire."  Big  wads  of 
smoke  rolled  nonchalantly  out  of  the  corners 
of  the  fireplace  and  filled  the  low  ceiling  with 
bluish  mist,  yet  I  held  my  peace,  and  I  did 
not  snatch  the  tongs.  I  know  of  no  circum 
stances  wherein  advice  is  less  welcome  than 
when  offered  by  a  woman  to  a  man  on  his 
knees  before  the  fire.  When  my  friends  make 
fudge  or  rare-bits,  they  invite  criticism,  they 
court  suggestion,  but  when  one  of  them  takes 
the  tongs  in  his  hand,  have  a  care  what  you 
say  to  him!  In  our  household  a  certain  con- 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  223 

vention  of  courtesy  —  fireplace  etiquette  — 
has  tacitly  established  itself,  in  accordance 
with  which  the  person  who  wields  the  tongs, 
assuming  full  responsibility  for  results,  is  free 
from  criticism  or  suggestion.  Disregard  of 
such  etiquette  may  not  have  precipitated 
divorce,  but  I  have  known  it  to  produce  dis 
tinctly  strained  relations.  And  so,  while 
Jonathan  tinkered  in  a  half-hearted  way 
at  the  fire,  I  ruled  my  tongue.  At  last,  lit 
tle  vanishing  blue  flickers  began  to  run 
along  the  log  edges,  growing  steadier  and 
yellower  until  they  settled  into  something 
like  a  blaze. 

Jonathan  straightened  up,  but  there  was  a 
trace  of  the  apologetic  in  his  tone  as  he  said, 
"That '11  do,  won't  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  I  replied  cautiously,  "it's  a 
fire." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  it?"  he  asked 
tolerantly. 

"Since  you  press  me,  I  should  say  that  it 
lacks  —  style." 

Jonathan  leaned  back,  puffing  comfortably 
—  "Now,  what  in  thunder  do  you  mean  by 
style?" 


224  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

But  I  was  not  to  be  enticed  into  an  empty 
discussion  of  terms.  "Well,  then,  say  frowsy. 
Call  it  a  frowsy  fire.  You  know  what  frowsy 
means,  I  suppose.  Of  course,  though,  I  don't 
mean  to  criticize,  only  you  asked  me."  And  I 
added,  with  perhaps  unnecessary  blandness, 
"I'm  warm  enough." 

Jonathan  smoked  a  few  moments  more, 
possibly  by  way  of  establishing  his  independ 
ence,  then  slowly  rose,  remarking,  "Oh, 
vr^ll,  if  you  want  a  stylish  fire  — " 

"I  did  n't  say  stylish,  I  said  style  — " 

But  he  was  gone.  He  must  have  journeyed 
out  to  the  woodshed,  —  however,  there  was  a 
moon,  —  for  he  returned  bearing  a  huge 
backlog.  He  had  been  magnanimous,  indeed, 
for  it  was  the  sort  that  above  all  others  delights 
my  heart  —  a  forked  apple  log  with  a  big 
hollow  heart.  In  a  moment,  I  was  on  my 
knees  clearing  a  place  for  it,  and  he  swung  it 
into  position  on  the  bed  of  embers,  tucked  in 
some  white  birch  in  front,  and  soon  the  flames 
were  licking  about  the  flaking  gray  apple  bark 
and  shooting  up  through  the  hollow  fork  in  a 
fashion  to  charm  the  most  fastidious. 

People  whose  open  fires  are  machine-fed 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  225 

—  who  arrange  for  their  wood  as  they  do  for 
their  groceries,  by  telephone  —  know  little 
of  the  real  joys  of  a  fire.  It  is  laid  by  a  serv 
ant,  —  unintelligently  laid,  —  and  upon  such 
masses  of  newspaper  and  split  kindling  that  it 
has  no  choice  but  to  burn.  The  match  is 
struck,  the  newspapers  flare  up,  and  soon  there 
is  a  big,  meaningless  blaze.  Handfuls  of 
wood  —  just  wood,  any  kind  of  wood —  are 
thrown  on  from  time  to  time,  and  perhaps  a 
log  or  two  —  any  log,  taken  at  random  from 
the  woodbox.  Truly,  this  is  merest  savagery, 
untrained,  undiscriminating;  it  is  the  Bush 
man's  meal  compared  to  the  Frenchman's 
dinner.  Not  thus  are  real  hearth  fires  laid. 
Not  thus  are  they  enjoyed.  You  should  plan 
a  fire  as  you  do  a  dinner  party,  and  your 
wood,  like  your  people,  should  be  selected  and 
arranged  with  due  regard  to  age,  tempera 
ment,  and  individual  eccentricity.  A  fire  thus 
skillfully  planned,  with  some  good  talkers 
among  the  logs,  may  be  as  well  worth  listen 
ing  to  as  the  conversation  about  your  table  — 
perhaps  better. 

To  get  the  full  flavor  of  a  fire  you  must 
know  your  wood  —  I  had  almost  said,  you 


226  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

must  remember  where  the  tree  stood  before  it 
was  cut  —  white  birch  in  the  dry,  worn-out 
slopes,  black  birches  from  the  edges  of  the 
pasture  lots,  chestnut  from  the  ledges,  maple 
from  the  swamps,  apple  from  the  old  orchard, 
oak  cut  in  sorrow  when  the  fullness  of  time 
has  come,  and  burned  with  the  honor  due  to 
royalty. 

But  though  this  may  be  a  refinement  of 
fancy,  it  is  no  fancy  that  one  kind  of  wood  dif 
fers  from  another  in  glory.  There  is  the  white 
birch,  gay,  light-hearted,  volatile,  putting  all 
its  pretty  self  into  a  few  flaring  moments  — 
a  butterfly  existence.  There  is  black  birch, 
reluctant  but  steady;  there  is  chestnut,  viva 
cious,  full  of  sudden  enthusiasms;  the  apple, 
cheerful  and  willing;  the  maple  and  oak,  sober 
and  stanch,  good  for  the  long  pull.  Every 
locality  has  its  own  sorts  of  wood,  as  its  own 
sorts  of  people.  Mine  is  a  New  England  wood 
basket,  and  as  I  look  at  it  I  recognize  all  niy 
old  friends.  Of  them  all  I  love  the  apple  best, 
yet  each  is  in  its  own  way  good.  For  a  quick 
blaze,  throw  on  the  white  birch;  for  a  long 
evening  of  reading,  when  one  does  not  want 
distraction,  pile  on  the  oak  and  maple.  They 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  227 

will  burn  quietly,  unobtrusively,  importun 
ing  you  neither  for  care  nor  appreciation.  But 
for  a  fire  to  sit  before  with  friends,  bring  in  the 
apple  wood.  Lay  the  great  backlog,  the  more 
gnarled  the  better,  and  if  there  is  a  hole 
through  which  the  flames  may  shoot  up,  that 
is  best  of  all  —  such  logs  we  hoard  for  special 
occasions.  Then  with  careful  touch  arrange 
the  wood  in  front,  your  bundles  of  twigs, 
your  pretty  white  birch  sticks  and  your  dry 
chestnut  to  start  the  fun,  then  the  big  apple 
forelog,  the  forestick  and  the  backstick, 
not  too  much  crowding  or  too  much  space. 
Ah,  there  is  a  seemly  fire!  There  is  a  fire  for 
friends ! 

For  the  renewal  of  old  friendships,  as  for 
the  perfecting  of  new  ones,  there  is  nothing 
like  a  fire.  I  met  a  friend  after  years  of  separ 
ation.  We  came  together  in  a  modern  house, 
just  modern  enough  to  be  full  of  steam  pipes 
and  registers  and  gas-logs,  but  not  so  modern  as 
to  have  readopted  open  fireplaces.  The  room 
had  no  centre  —  there  was  no  hearth  to  draw 
around,  there  was  no  reason  for  sitting  in  one 
place  rather  than  another.  We  could  not 
draw  around  the  steam  pipes  or  the  register. 


228  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

The  gas-log  was  not  turned  on,  it  would  have 
been  too  hot,  and  anyhow  —  a  gas-log!  We 
sat  and  talked  for  hours  in  an  aimless,  unsat 
isfactory  sort  of  way.  I  felt  as  if  we  were, 
figuratively  speaking,  sitting  on  the  edges  of 
our  chairs.  It  was  better  than  nothing,  but  it 
was  not  a  real  meeting.  The  next  year  we 
were  together  again,  but  this  time  it  was  before 
our  own  blazing  apple  log.  We  did  not  talk  so 
much  as  we  had  done  before,  but  we  were 
silent  a  great  deal  more,  which  was  better. 
For  in  really  intimate  communion,  silence 
is  the  last,  best  gift,  but  it  cannot  be  forced, 
it  cannot  be  snatched  at.  You  may  try  it,  but 
you  grow  restless,  you  begin  to  consider  your 
expression,  you  wonder  how  long  it  will  last, 
you  fancy  it  may  seem  to  mean  too  much,  and 
at  last  you  are  hurried  over  into  talk  again. 
But  before  a  fire  all  things  are  possible,  even 
silence.  Chance  acquaintances  and  intimate 
friends  fall  alike  under  its  spell,  talk  is  abso 
lutely  spontaneous,  it  flows  rapidly  or  slowly, 
or  dies  away  altogether.  What  need  for  talk 
when  the  fire  is  saying  it  all  —  now  flaring  up 
in  a  blaze  to  interpret  our  rarest  enthusiasms, 
now  popping  and  snapping  with  wit  or  fury, 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  229 

now  burning  with  the  even  heat  of  steady, 
rational  life,  now  settling  into  a  contemplat 
ive  glow  of  meditation. 

In  the  circle  of  the  hearth  everything  is 
good,  but  reminiscences  are  best  of  all.  I 
sometimes  think  all  life  is  valuable  merely  as 
an  opportunity  to  accumulate  reminiscences, 
and  I  am  sure  that  the  precious  horde  can  be 
seen  to  best  advantage  by  firelight.  Then  is 
the  time  for  the  miser  to  spread  out  his  treas 
ure  and  admire  it.  I  remember  once  Jona 
than  and  I  were  on  a  bicycle  trip.  My  chain 
had  broken  and  we  had  trudged  eight  long, 
hot,  dusty  miles  to  the  river  that  had  to  be 
crossed  that  night.  It  was  dark  when  we 
reached  it,  and  it  had  begun  to  rain,  a  warm, 
dreary  drizzle.  As  we  stumbled  over  the  rail 
way  track  and  felt  our  way  past  the  little 
station  toward  the  still  smaller  ferry-house, 
a  voice  from  the  darkness  drawled,  "Guess 
ye  won't  git  the  ferry  to-night  —  last  boat 
went  half  an  hour  ago." 

It  was  the  final  blow.  We  leaned  forlornly 
on  our  wheels  and  looked  out  upon  the  dark 
water,  whose  rain-quenched  mirror  dully  re 
flected  the  lights  of  the  opposite  town.  Finally 


230  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

I  said,  "Well,  Jonathan,  anyhow,  we're  mak 
ing  reminiscences." 

This  remark  was,  I  own,  not  highly  practi 
cal,  but  I  intended  it  to  be  comforting,  and  if 
it  failed  —  as  it  clearly  did  —  to  cheer  Jona 
than,  that  was  not  because  it  lacked  wisdom, 
but  because  men  are  so  often  devoid  of  im 
agination  save  as  an  adornment  of  their 
easy  moments. 

Finally  the  same  impersonal  voice  out  of 
the  dark  uttered  another  sentence:  "Might 
row  ye  'cross  if  ye've  got  to  go  to-night." 

"How  much?"  said  Jonathan. 

"Guess  it's  wuth  a  dollar.  Mean  night  to 
be  out  there." 

We  had,  between  us,  forty-seven  cents  and 
three  street-car  tickets,  good  in  the  opposite 
town.  All  this  we  meekly  offered  him,  and 
in  the  pause  that  followed  I  added  desper 
ately,  "And  we  can  each  take  an  oar  and 
help." 

"Wall  — I '11  take  ye." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  voice  suggested 
an  accompanying  grin,  but  I  had  no  proof. 

And  so  we  got  across.  We  never  saw  the 
face  of  our  boatman,  but  on  the  other  side  we 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  231 

felt  for  his  hand  and  emptied  our  pockets  into 
it  —  nickels  and  dimes  and  pennies,  and  the 
three  car  tickets;  but  as  we  were  turning  to 
grope  our  way  up  the  dock  the  voice  said, 
"Here  —  ye '11  need  two  of  them  tickets  to 
git  home  with.  I  do'  want  'um." 

Now  already  it  must  be  evident  to  any  one 
that  my  remark  to  Jonathan,  though  perhaps 
ill-timed,  embodied  a  profound  and  cheering 
truth.  The  more  uncomfortable  you  are,  the 
more  desperate  your  situation,  the  better 
the  reminiscences  you  are  storing  up  to  be 
enjoyed  before  the  fire. 

Yes,  there  is  nothing  like  firelight  for  remin 
iscences.  By  the  clear  light  of  morning  — 
say  ten  o'clock  --  I  might  be  forced  to  admit 
that  life  has  had  its  humdrum  and  unpleasant 
aspects,  but  in  the  evening,  with  the  candles 
lighted  and  the  fire  glowing  and  flickering,  I 
will  allow  no  such  thing.  The  firelight  some 
how  lights  up  all  the  lovely  bits,  and  about 
the  unlovely  ones  it  throws  a  thick  mantle  of 
shadow,  like  the  shadows  in  the  corners  of 
the  room  behind  us.  Nor  does  the  firelight 
magic  end  here.  Not  only  does  it  play  about 
the  fair  hours  of  our  past,  making  them  fairer, 


232  THE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

it  also  vaguely  multiplies  them,  so  that  for  one 
real  occurrence  we  see  many.  It  is  like  stand 
ing  between  opposing  mirrors:  looking  into 
either,  one  sees  a  receding  series  of  reflections, 
unending  as  Banquo's  royal  line. 

Thus,  once  last  winter  Jonathan  and  I 
spent  a  long  evening  reading  aloud  a  tale  of 
the  "  Earthly  Paradise."  Once  last  summer  we 
sat  alone  before  the  embers  and  quietly  talked. 
Once  and  only  once.  Yet  firelit  memory 
is  already  laying  her  touch  upon  those  hours. 
Already,  though  my  diary  tells  me  they  stood 
alone,  I  am  persuaded  that  they  were  many. 
I  look  back  over  a  retrospect  of  many  long 
winter  evenings,  in  whose  cozy  light  I  see 
again  the  ringed  smoke  of  Jonathan's  pipe 
and  hear  again  the  lingering  verse  of  the  idle 
singer's  tales;  a  retrospect  of  many  long  sum 
mer  twilights,  wherein  the  warmth  of  the 
settling  embers  mingles  with  the  sharp  cool 
ness  of  a  summer  night,  and  pleasant  talk 
gives  place  to  pleasant  silence. 

The  apple  logs  have  burned  through  and 
rolled  apart,  the  great  backlog  has  settled 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  ashes.  The  fire 
whispers  and  murmurs,  it  whistles  soft,  low 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  233 

notes,  it  chuckles  and  sighs,  finally  it  sinks 
into  reverie,  stirring  now  and  then  to  whisper 
"sh-h-h-h"  lest  we  break  the  spell.  Only  the 
old  clock  in  the  hall  refuses  to  yield,  and  so 
berly  persists  in  its  "tick-tock,"  "tick-tock." 
Jonathan's  pipe  is  smoked  out,  but  he  does 
not  fill  it,  and  we  sit  there,  looking  deep  into 
the  rosy  glow,  and  dreaming,  dreaming  — 


THE   END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE    OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


10  T933 


MAR    3    1933 


LD  21-2m-l,'33  (52m) 


343161 


/ 

c-o- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


